Rebellion
by PhoenixAeternum
Summary: DH/AU. When Ron abandons them, Harry and Hermione must find a way to carry on the hunt for both Horcruxes and Hallows. With nothing and no one but each other, can they survive the war and overthrow the Dark Lord? H/Hr.
1. The Blood Angel

_An Author's Notes:_

_ This story is my first in years, and I understand the skepticism with which anyone may approach this endeavor of mine; my other stories, except for one, remain incomplete and likely shall remain so. The same fate may await this one as well, but I don't think I'm meant to know that yet, one way or another._

_ I can only tell you that I intend to write this story for as long as inspiration shall allow; those words, written in another's story, would be enough to drive me away without reading further – I understand if your reaction is as mine would be. But I would ask you give me a chance, if you have it in you to chance disappointment._

_ -PhoenixAeternum_

_ November 26, 2010_

**Rebellion  
****The Blood Angel**

_ She lay there, blood in the snow; surrounding her and expanding was a crimson stain, imprinting in the snow a blood-soaked angel. Her pale skin was tinged with blue, but for the red that matted her hair and striped her face. She was quiet, and she was still. Her chest did not rise, and her chest did not fall._

_ There was no moan of pain or beat of heart. He shrieked, laughing –_

_The scene changed, and Harry wasn't where he'd been before – he was Harry again, in another place and time, and he could not move. He could feel the beat of his heart and the rise of his chest. Dread and panic crept across him, a race of one against the other, and achingly slow. But no signal to his fingers to grasp the wand that slept beneath his downturned palm would go through. He thought he could hear a sound outside the tent, a low, continuous hum; he dreaded the sound, wanted either to confront or escape it, but he could not move. He lay there, frozen, as the sound grew louder – and with the increase of each decibel, the sound grew an octave lower, until the hum shook the frozen air he consumed._

_ "He is coming. He is coming. He is coming. He is coming." The beat of the words thumped inside his skull, it thumped over and again. He could not forget those words. He could not forget. "He is coming. He is coming. He is coming. He is—"_

"RON!"

Hermione's shriek had shaken him from his hallucination. Beside him in the tent, in the cot to his left, Hermione was thrashing in her sleep again. Since Ron had left a week before, this had happened four of the seven nights. Harry, drowned by pity for Hermione and how much harder Ron's absence was on her than him, sat up in his cot, swung his legs to one side, and stepped lightly over to Hermione's still-sleeping form – there was no thought in his mind of the girl in the snow, the blood angel. All there was before him was all that was before him.

"Ron, no, please – please, Ron! You've got to come back, you can't – you can't... Ron..."

Crouching down beside her limp figure, Harry lightly shook Hermione's shoulders, careful as he was able in order not to frighten her. "Hermione... Hermione..." It took a firmer shake than it normally did, but Hermione's eyes twitched, and a further flutter and a gasp later, and she was awake. Even in the dark, he could see that her eyes were blood-red and swimming with tears.

"He just... he just..." Hermione said, disoriented and incognizant.

"I know," Harry said, "I know." And he did. Neither of them had been able to talk about Ron's leaving. For one because it upset Hermione so badly – even just his name and she would go foul for hours at a time. But beyond that, neither of them had been able to articulate, in a way they were comfortable with, just what it is that hurt them, and why. The closest either of them had come had been within the hour of Ron leaving, and Harry had ranted to Hermione about "that traitor." She hadn't talked to him for the rest of the night for that. "It's okay, Hermione..." he said. "Really, it's all going to be okay..."

With a shudder, her crying turned into a sob, and he knew that she would not remember any of this, just as she had not remembered any of the four other nights he had done his best to console her when her nightmares had overpowered her and spilled over as they had tonight. Each of those four nights, he had gotten out of his own cot, knelt down to where she lay, and either held her hand or stroked her hair or murmured half-truths in her ear.

He didn't know what else to do; from Cho to Ginny, he'd never been much good at consoling girls. He didn't have anyone to show him or tell him what he was supposed to do, and so he did his best without knowing what was best. But whatever he did – the hand-holding, the hair-stroking, the murmuring – each seemed to help her some.

Waking her up as slightly as he just had usually was enough to take her out her nightmares, and usually the interruption was enough to keep those nightmares from coming back. He wasn't sure what to do with her; he didn't react this way to things – hadn't, in fact, reacted this way to losing Ron. When he did have nightmares – the sort Hermione was having now, the sort that overtook the mind and corrupted the soul – there was never, or had never been, anyone there to comfort him like he was comforting Hermione now. Whether by an uncaring aunt, uncle and cousin, or four roommates who didn't know what to do, he'd really only ever be left to regain control or left in the hopes that the dream would pass on its own. But he just couldn't lie in the same room as Hermione, five feet away, and let her nightmares do to her what his had done to him.

And so he found himself on his knees beside her cot, and he was holding her left hand with his right, and he could see her slipping in and out of consciousness, could see it in the way her eyes went from seeing to blind with every few beats of his heart. And crouched there, holding her hand with one of his, and with his other hand stroking her hair, he felt such sadness.

Hermione was wonderful – she was mad, and she annoyed, irritated, and even infuriated him from time to time. But she was sweet, and she cared, and even after all he and she – and, yes, Ron, though he didn't want to think of it – had been through, she still retained a kind of unjaded optimism. It was something that Harry felt he had lost years ago, whether he had or not. She felt so much younger. In a way so much more innocent. And every time he was in the position he was in now, each of the times he had been over the last week, it was that feeling – not that thought, there was no thought, there was only feeling – that filled his head. She didn't deserve this. She didn't. And it made him so sad that, undeserved, this is what she got. That there was nothing he could do but operate on the margins – stroking her hair, squeezing her hand – really got to him. She was beyond his help.

And it was in that frame of mind – that odd, almost frenzied sort of sadness – that he looked on her face and, seeing her eyes closed and her expression placid, stopped whispering to her how everything was going to be alright. He didn't know if things would be, and he would never have been able to tell her things would be alright if she were conscious and able to challenge that thought. But looking down at her, filled with such sadness, such regret that things had gone the way they had since Bill and Fleur's wedding, he set his forehead against hers, closed his eyes tight, and intoned his apology. Pulling back from her, he wiped a hair from her brow and lightly placed his lips where his forehead had been only a moment before.

_ I am so sorry. This never should have happened. This never, never should have happened. It never should have been like this. I am so, so sorry._

And he was. He really, truly was. He wished, with melancholy, that there was something more he could do than stroke her hair in the dead of night. He wished they could talk about this, but he knew they couldn't. And he knew that she wouldn't, even if she could; and he wasn't sure if, even though she could and she would, that he was able to.

He knew he didn't help enough. He knew that, after six years of friendship, she deserved more than this. But this was all he could give, and for as long as it helped, even if only slightly, even if never as much as he would like, he would keep it up. He had to do something, even if something amounted to just more than nothing. He owed her at least that.

**XXX-XX-XXXX**

The sun rose the next morning, and Harry with it. He and Hermione had put a stop to the practice of guarding the tent in shifts during the night. They were no more likely to be attacked during the night than during the day – that thinking, mixed with the psychological weight of bearing the locket with no sleep, perhaps with a dash of the nihilism Ron's departure had left in them, allowed them both to sleep through the night.

Harry inspected the enchantments they had erected around their latest hiding place – at the foot of a mountain in either England or Wales, neither Harry nor Hermione was sure which – to be sure that they were still intact. It was probably a waste of time, this morning ritual – anyone who was able to not only detect but also dismantle at least some of their wards would have likely killed or captured them by now.

Satisfied that the wards were all still up, Harry pointed his wand at the small fire-pit they constructed at every site they camped and began to cook some eggs they had procured from a Muggle home a few days before. He thought a bit of protein in Hermione might be useful, after the night she'd had. She'd had three sets of nightmares the night before – more than Harry was frankly able to handle. Consequently, he hadn't gotten much sleep either, but he knew the night had been much harder on his companion than it had been on him; and so it was with a tinge of sadness that he levitated the eggs over the fire for Hermione, while for himself managing only to burn a bit of bread. It was almost toast.

It was another few minutes before Hermione woke and exited the tent. Showers were a hard thing to come by, and so most bathing was rarely little more than a well-placed _Scourgify_ or two. This left both of them with a more-or-less permanent case of bed-head, however much brushing Hermione might subject her hair to. And so it was a rather-more-bushy-haired-than-usual Hermione who exited the tent to see Harry levitating a couple eggs over a modest fire.

"What in the _hell_ are you doing, Harry Potter!" Hermione almost shouted. Her face was steadily going pink.

"I, er, I made you eggs," he offered feebly, not sure what to make of her anger. "I thought you could use some proper food."

"What if someone smells!" she hissed at him. "None of the wards prevent smells from crossing the threshold – what if someone smells the eggs? They'll know there is someone here! Is that what you want? Do you _want_ them to find us!"

Harry thought several things in rapid succession: one, that when they had procured the eggs a few days before, it had been Hermione's idea, and she had indicated in no way whatsoever that they shouldn't cook them for fear of being found; two, that she was starting to lose it; three, that her starting to lose it might be in some way connected to her, er, cycle; and four, that all of this made him a bit angry as well.

"There is nothing in that book Dumbledore gave me that will stop scents from crossing the wards!" Hermione said forcefully, dissatisfied by Harry's silent confusion.

"I – I'm sorry, Hermione. I was trying to do something nice for you – for both of us, really. We haven't had a real meal since before Ron left, and-"

She pulled out her wand and blasted the eggs into small bits that now covered him. She turned on her heel and marched back into the tent; he knew from the squelching sound that emanated from the tent that she had sealed the entrance.

He sighed deeply, trying not to throw a curse at the tent. She was absolutely mental. Absolutely out of her mind. All he'd been trying to do was show some sympathy, show some humanity and some decency to a girl who had gotten far from what she deserved – and all she did was throw it back at him and scold him for daring to think of her. They had cooked a dozen times since they had gone searching for the Horcruxes and Hallows, and this was the first time Hermione had complained that the scent might give them away.

He sighed again. He had expected things to be difficult, impossibly difficult. But there were difficulties here he'd never thought he'd be dealing with. He hadn't foreseen that Ron might leave, though now he realized he should have – Ron had developed something of a habit for acting rash when he was upset with or jealous of Harry. He hadn't foreseen that he might have to be strong for Ron and Hermione, not when he had to be strong for himself too. Everything was riding on him, and he knew that, and he'd always known it. He just thought he'd have two pillars to help hold him up.

He thought back to the last day he'd spent with Dumbledore, the day he'd begun to prepare Harry for more than just finding Horcruxes. The day Dumbledore had first mentioned the Hallows. He thought back to that last day, wondering if Dumbledore had known – if he could have known – that that dark day would be his last.

_Albus Dumbledore sat in a high-backed chair in his office, writing in an old and weathered book – a book of spells and enchantments that he intended to leave for Hermione Granger when he died; he had sketched out an idea in his head of what would await Harry and his friends, and he knew that Ms. Granger must be given certain information in order for them to be safe while searching for the Horcruxes and the Hallows. _

_ Written in the book were dozens of spells – protective enchantments to ward against intruders, advanced medical charms to cure several serious injuries, curses strong enough to bring the most powerful enemy within inches of death. Some of these spells, he was afraid, neither Harry nor his two closest friends would be able to perform; but this knowledge had to be passed down, and it was with some urgency that Dumbledore wrote, filling page and page with one hundred years' knowledge of magic and spell-casting._

_ There came a knock at the door, and Dumbledore looked up, startled; something like excitement glinted in his eyes, and he spoke toward the door, "Come in, Harry."_

_ The boy, sixteen and bespectacled, entered his office with the same half-way-between-determined-and-overwhelmed look that he had worn the last several times he had entered this office. For a very brief moment, Dumbledore felt singed by guilt he could scarcely suppress; this wasn't a young man's burden, and he knew it. But there was simply no other way – if he thought it was possible to delay this task until Harry was, say, in his thirties, he would. But there was no way, absolutely no way that could happen. Forget the body count that would mount ever higher in the fifteen to twenty intervening years; forget the number of lives that would be ruined, the amount of blood – both magical and muggle – that would be spilt: Voldemort would not permit Harry to live._

_ "Professor Dumbledore, sir – how are you?" _

_ Dumbledore gave a smile and small nod, "Well enough, thank you, Harry." There was a pause for a moment as Harry took his usual seat opposite Dumbledore. "Shall we begin?"_

_ With a nod from Harry, Dumbledore began slowly: "With the memory you managed to acquire from Professor Slughorn, we can know with certainty that Voldemort has split his soul – perhaps into as many as seven pieces. You know what a Horcrux is, and you know," he raised his blackened hand , "what a danger they may pose." _

_ Harry nodded again. "Yes, sir."_

_ "Harry, there shall come a time – and I suspect it shall come sooner than either of us is prepared for – when I am no longer able to assist you in the task of destroying Voldemort's Horcruxes." Harry looked as if he wanted to interrupt, but Dumbledore raised his good hand and continued on, smiling. "I am an old man, Harry; I cannot know how my end shall come to me, but I can know that it shall. We live in dangerous times – combined with my senescence, my days are running few, I fear."_

_ Harry gave a nod again, but more hesitantly, and Dumbledore could see that he was holding back comments of disagreement or outrage._

_ Dumbledore paused for a moment and gathered himself. He was about to discuss legend, inexplicably true legend. "Harry... there exists in our world a trio of objects known as the Deathly Hallows. Do you know them?"_

_ Harry looked intrigued for a moment, and also quite confused. Dumbledore knew why: He had never mentioned these objects to Harry before, and Harry, having grown up raised by Muggles, would certainly know nothing about them from the childhood tales told to Wizarding children. "No, professor," Harry said. "No, I'm sorry, sir, I don't."_

_ "No matter, Harry," Dumbledore said. "I had not expected you to; they are fabled and ancient objects, Harry, and most of our kind regard them as figurative rather than literal objects. But I must assure you, Harry, that the Deathly Hallows are real, and they may be the second half of the puzzle that is how to defeat the Dark Lord Voldemort."_

_ "But what _are_ the Deathly Hallows, sir?"_

_ "There are three objects, Harry, which comprise the Deathly Hallows: the Elder Wand – a wand more powerful than any other in all creation; the Resurrection Stone – a stone which, properly used, is able to return to life those who have died; and the Cloak of Invisibility – which is so powerful as to allow one to hide forever from whatever harm may seek him. It is said that to possess these three items would make one immortal."_

_ Dumbledore paused again. "Whether that is to be believed, that these objects make one immortal, is somewhat... dubious, I think. True immortality, it would seem, is a fantasy; the approximations achieved by my dear friend Nicolas and Lord Voldemort, I am afraid, are just that: mere approximations. They are able to delay death, but not defeat it._

_ "However, there can be no doubt – he who would wield the Deathly Hallows would be an incredible force to be reckoned with on the battlefield. How a duel could be won against an invisible wizard, wielding the most powerful wand of all time and the armies of the underworld..._

_ "The specifics, I'm afraid, are not altogether very important. What is important, Harry, is that you find these objects. What is important is that we give you every possible advantage against Lord Voldemort when it eventually happens that you must wage war against him."_

_ "Professor..." Harry began, "you spoke of – of a 'Cloak of Invisibility.' Is that like – like my dad's Invisibility Cloak?"_

_ Dumbledore gave a genuine grin. "Yes, my boy. Yes, indeed. I have long suspected – and believe with near certainty now – that the cloak which your father lent to me all those years ago, and which I returned to you in your first year here at Hogwarts, is in fact the ancient Cloak of Invisibility which belonged to Ignotus Peverell centuries ago."_

_ "Ignotus Peverell? Who was he, sir?"_

_ "He, Harry, was one of the three brothers spoken of in—"_

_ Dumbledore stopped dead, silenced by a sudden humming from a silvery object which rested on his desk. For a moment, Dumbledore looked caught between elation and horror. "As I suspected," he said, more to himself than to Harry._

_ "Harry," he said, looking away from the silver trinket and to the sixteen year old boy before him, "Harry, we must leave immediately – I have located another Horcrux, and it is essential that we destroy it as soon as we are able. We must go now, to a seaside cavern Tom Riddle visited as a child at the orphanage at which he was raised._

_ "But I must have your word, Harry, that you will do exactly as I say, exactly when I say it, without question or hesitation. Can you promise me that, Harry?"_

_ Harry swallowed hard, but understood. This was the price he paid for being Dumbledore's companion, and it was with only slight reluctance that Harry nodded. _

_ "Good," Dumbledore said. "Then let us leave immediately. Please retrieve your Invisibility Cloak and return to my office in ten minutes..."_

_** A/N: Thank you all so very much for reading. It really means quite a lot to me – much more than is socially acceptable to explain – to have people willing to take the time to read my stories, especially given my rather uneven track-record. I would especially like to thank those of you who review – there is nothing I know of in all this world more rewarding than a thoughtful, deliberate review. It's the single most gratifying thing in the world, and I thank every one of you who takes the time to do it. Thank you so, so much. **_

_** Chapter Two – subtitled The Inferno – will be out sometime in the next few days; the way I am operating with this story is to not post a chapter until I have finished both of the chapters that follow it; and so chapter one was posted when I finished writing chapter three, and so chapter two shall be posted when I've finished writing chapter four. My word counter assures me that I am 12.5% done with chapter four, but I think I'm a bit more along than that. So look for it sometime toward the end of next week. **_

_** Thank you all again for reading, and please review – it fills me with inspiration and drive, and it elates me more than anything else I could name.**_

_** -PhoenixAeternum**_

_** 4 December 2010**_

**_Oh - and one last thing - a big thank you to DukeBrymin for his bit of beta help with this chapter. It is very, very much appreciated._**


	2. The Inferno

_An Author's Note:_

_ So! I've made it to a chapter two, and so have you by the looks of it. This one is shorter than the last – not for a reason anyone but me would find particularly good, I suppose. But it has to end where it ends; I couldn't start the next phase of the story without the ending bit, and there wasn't any more to tell of the story so far. The most I can say is that's sometimes the way things work out._

_ So here you have it, chapter two – a bit shorter and a bit odder, and a bit closer to where we need to be._

_ -PhoenixAeternum_

_ December 1, 2010_

**Rebellion  
****The Inferno**

Harry sat outside the tent on a log. The nights were getting colder – Harry guessed it was almost Halloween, but he didn't rightly know; they didn't have much use for what day it was out here in the wilderness. Bill and Fleur's wedding had seemed so long ago now, and a wistful sort of sadness cut across Harry's heart as he remembered how _happy_ he had been that day. Even with the dark cloud of Voldemort's return hanging over his head, until Kingsley's message of the Ministry's fall reached them the day had been revelrous and joyful. He thought back to Ginny...

Ginny, who had provided the happiest moments of Harry's last six years, which had been the happiest years of his life. Ginny, whom he'd left with the heaviest heart he'd ever hand. Ginny, with whom he'd stolen a heartbeat at the Burrow – a heartbeat that was just more than the instant he needed to survive, but less – infinitely less – than the lifetime he longed for. Ginny, who he missed more than warm beds, than Hogwarts breakfasts, than Weasley sweaters, than, if he were honest, Ron.

He wanted one more kiss – just one more kiss, one kiss to remind him of each kiss that came before, a kiss that was the promise of more than a kiss, the promise of a thousand kisses, a lifetime of kisses – of a life worth living. Not the life he lived now, in hiding and in hunt of Horcruxes. Not the life he lived on the run, away from the place he called home and the people he called family.

With a small shake, he put the memory aside. Ginny was far away now – more than miles separated them, and he knew he might never see her again. And thoughts of Ginny led, naturally, to thoughts of her brother, who had abandoned them nine days earlier, and the familiar, bitter taste of betrayal filled Harry's mouth. He sighed bitterly, trying to restrain his anger. It wouldn't help him here, in this lonely wood. It wouldn't bring him any closer to finding any more Horcruxes, or any closer to destroying the one that hung around his neck and rested against his thumping heart.

He hated the locket. He hated it more than he'd hated the ring that had taken his mentor's hand and vitality; more than he hated the diary that had broken his only real girlfriend's heart and annihilated her innocence. Dumbledore had died trying to find this useless piece of metal, and had been tricked by Regulus Black's fake. Dumbledore had died for nothing, and Harry thought again and for the thousandth time that all this would have been so _easy_ if Dumbledore had lived.

Harry had so many questions that would never be answered; he had so much left he needed to know, but now had no one left in the world to tell him. Yes, Dumbledore had left Hermione a book of spells and a copy of _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_, and Harry understood why in both cases – to help them on their journey, to allow them to better protect themselves, Dumbledore had left his personal spell-book; to better understand the Deathly Hallows, Dumbledore had left her _Beedle the Bard_; but that didn't tell him enough.

He was sure Dumbledore had known – or at least suspected – the whereabouts of the other Hallows, and perhaps another Horcrux or two. And nice though it was to read _Babbitty Rabbitty and the Cackling Stump_, and nice though it was to ward their position against intruders, neither provided any insight into where he might find another Hallow, another Horcrux, or how to destroy the one he had.

How easier it all would be if Dumbledore were still around...

**XXX-XX-XXXX**

Draco Malfoy sat on a snow bank, hidden from the world's eyes by a Disillusionment Charm, waiting. He hated this, hated that it had fallen to him to sit out here in the shivering cold, waiting for something that, in all likelihood, would never happen.

But it was the Dark Lord's will that he sit there in wait, outside the house of some long since senile old woman – a woman older, indeed, than Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster of Hogwarts, in whose death Draco himself had played a pivotal role.

He swallowed, resolving not to think about it. It would do him no good now anyhow; thoughts like those he had sometimes entertained since the old wizard's death would not serve him at all here, as a glorified lookout, outside the house of Bathilda Bagshot in Godric's Hollow.

**XXX-XX-XXXX**

"Harry?" came a voice from behind him. Harry turned to see Hermione, pretty but so pale, step out of the tent in pajamas, a pair of fuzzy slippers on her feet. She hadn't spoken to him much since Ron left, even less since their dispute over the egg-cooking.

"Morning," he said, with a half-smile; he wasn't sure what to expect from her, and hadn't been since Ron left. There were moments – and yes, they were few – when she was cheerful, and she smiled, and her cheeks had color, and she was almost herself again. But those moments were drowned in a sea of sadness, and anger, and hopelessness – and Harry could not look in her eyes, fearful that he would see that very specter of emptiness lurking behind them.

She didn't say anything and instead sat gingerly down on the cold ground next to him. For a long while they both stared, neither at each other, but into the trees. The forest in which they had taken their refuge was tightly packed with tall, thin, nearly leafless trees, and they seemed surreal displayed against the grey sky.

For a long time, neither spoke. But when the silence was broken, it was Hermione who spoke first. "I really miss him." It was the frankest Hermione had been about Ron's leaving since he had done, and Harry's blood ran cold for an instant on hearing her. She sighed, annoyed and confused. "But I don't miss him," she said, contradicting herself. "I wish he'd never left, but now that he has... Now that he's gone, that leaving us is what he's chosen... I miss him, Harry. But I don't want him to come back."

Her words surprised him, and not just in their honesty. Hermione, who had harbored feelings for him – and he for her – for at least a few years now, didn't want him to come back. Harry was struck dumb. He didn't know what to say. He didn't know if he felt the same way, or if he wanted Ron to come back – his mind was absolutely blank of intelligible thought, and so he said whatever came to his lips.

"Don't think he could if he wanted to. Not now that we've moved from where we were the night he left." It was odd to be able to talk about it – and the words felt foreign in his mouth for it. Hermione hadn't permitted, since Ron left, even the merest mention of his leaving – not even his name. "Ron's a lot of things," and saying it made something in his chest go numb, "but I don't think he'd be able to track us down."

She didn't say anything to this, but merely nodded blankly. He could see that a part of her was retreating, could see the disappearance in her gaze of that bit of bravery she'd mustered to tell him about her feelings on Ron's leaving. He'd wondered for half a moment if he had ruined whatever it was that had just happened.

There was a familiar tone in her voice, a tone he couldn't place but that affected him strangely. It was like nostalgia, like something old and forgotten bleeding through to now, and then she spoke, at first softly, but then more strongly, and he could smell the scent of old books in a sun-soaked room. It was like finding a friend you thought you'd lost.

They sat there, in the increasing cold, and they talked; sometimes they spoke of nothing, sometimes of Voldemort and Horcruxes and Dumbledore and Hallows. But there was something about it, something inexplicable, that Harry could never have anticipated before or spoken of again, that made things not so bad. It was like the sky were falling and had stopped.

"What do you suppose they're doing now?" she asked after there had been two beats' silence, and her eyes were far away.

"Who?" Harry asked, looking at her.

"Lupin and Tonks? Hagrid, and Neville and Ginny and Luna? Anyone – everyone, I suppose. I wonder if things are any better than they are here with us."

"I'm sure they're fighting every day. Lupin especially. It's got to be for him like it was for Sirius – always hiding and running. A werewolf and member of the Order of the Phoenix. They might not even be alive anymore."

"You can't think that way, Harry."

"I know," he said distantly. "But out here – I mean, would we even know? Half of Hogwarts could die, and there's no one out here to tell us. We might come back one day, ten years from now, and we'll have destroyed all the Horcruxes, and we'll have the Hallows, and we could find out that everyone's died. That You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters are all that's left.

"That's why we have to do this, though, isn't it?" he asked himself as much as Hermione. "Why we're still out here. Why you didn't leave when Ron did. It's 'cause we're fighting for something. For people we want to see again. And we have to keep fighting, or we never will. Or we could both go home now, go back to the people we love, and wait until You-Know-Who finds us.

"But he would find us. And when he did, then what? We'd be dead – all of us. And everyone else too, or as good as. We're the only ones in the world – you, and me, and... well, and Ron – who know his secret, who know how to destroy him. If he kills us, Hermione, his secret will go with us, and he'll never die. I think that's what the prophecy means. I think it means I'm all there is, and if I die, if I don't... if I don't _kill _him, no one ever will, and there'll be nothing, and he'll never die."

"That's why I didn't leave," Hermione said, and her voice was quiet. "How could I, really? How could I leave you out here, alone, to do this without anyone at your side? You need me, Harry – or at least someone. You can't do this alone, and I won't let you. I won't ever let you."

He smiled so sadly he might not have smiled at all. "Thank you, Hermione." And he really meant it. He thought back to all the thousands of times he'd said those two words – thank you – and all the times he'd not really meant it, or he'd said it because it was polite and it was just what you said, and he thought of how few times he'd said it because he was well and truly grateful for someone or something they'd done.

"I'd have died by now," he said softly, "without you." He surprised himself with how casual he sounded. But however offhand it may have sounded to Hermione, and he couldn't know one way or another, he knew as soon as the words had formed on his lips that they were the truth. He depended on her, and not just for her brain and her knowledge of magic and spells. He needed her.

For a long time there was silence, while Harry thought of everything. He sat very still, his breathing slow, and he suspected Hermione was in thought as deep as his. After a long time, Hermione turned to face him, and she spoke, but as she spoke, it was like hearing her so much younger, like it had been in the days before the troll in their first year, when she was just a young girl afraid of what the others would think of her or say, whether they would like her or find her annoying, whether she would have any friends. Something about the words she said and the way she said them made her sound so much younger...

"I... I've been thinking, Harry... a lot... And... and I think we need to go to Godric's Hollow." Hermione's voice wavered as she spoke, as if fearful that Harry might abandon her for the mere suggestion. "I think... I think, Harry, that we need to speak with Bathilda Bagshot... Harry, she's supposed to have known the Dumbledores the longest. I think we could find a lot of answers there, Harry..."

Harry wanted to beam. But he was too taken aback by her suggestion to convey that in any way she might be able to understand. He had wanted to visit Godric's Hallow since shortly after the Ministry debacle; he liked to lie to himself, inwardly insisting he wanted to go because he thought there might be more on the Hallows or Horcruxes awaiting them – but if he was honest, if he was very, very honest, he wanted to see his parents' graves. He wanted to see the town where it had all happened, where Voldemort had killed his parents and turned his wand on Harry himself. He yearned to go – and that Hermione now suggested it was entirely too convenient. He wanted to beam.

"Yeah, I – yeah, we can definitely do that, Hermione," Harry said, stumbling over his own words in his enthusiasm. "I'd... I'd really like that."

Hermione wanted to beam.

**XXX-XX-XXXX**

_Jealousy rose in him, jealousy overtook him and threatened to undo him. Jealousy swirled around him and through him, inside and out of him, and over and around again – rising, swirling, white-hot and raging. Jealousy that shattered glass and shook earth and toppled mountains and boiled seas – jealousy that pierced him again and again until jealousy was him, and he was jealousy, and neither ever stopped or ever began, and all of it was one._

_ Pain too. Pain that ripped through him like a bullet, like a rocket – the pain of love, the pain that debilitated, that would force a man to his knees, that would take him out at his knees, a pain so intense and so burning and so hot and so consuming that he might never stand again, that he might never gasp another breath – that there would be no point to another breath, no point but the point that cut into him, that pierced and broke and stabbed at him. Pain immemorial, pain eternal, pain everlasting, pain forever, and forever, and for ever after that, pain until all there was was pain and hurt and pain and breaking and falling and the acute, unyielding, unceasing, ever-certain pain of irreversible pain. The pain of all pain, a pain that won't ever die._

_ It was all he could think, and all he could hear, and all he could breath – and the pain and the jealousy – only that was what was real. Everything else was a lie, was the lie, the unforgivable, unbreakable, unceasing lie that overwhelmed him, that overcame him and overtook him. Lies surrounded him, and he was a lie, and all was a lie, and all lies were lies and nothing – nothing – __**nothing**__ was true. Not one word, not ever. Only ever lies, only ever lies, lies, lies, lies, __**lies**__._

_ They had done this to him, they had made him like this – had forced this on him, this madness, this insane, jealous, hate-filled, pain love. They made him this way. They took everything from him. He, and she, and together as they – this was them, and it was because of them – it was __**because**__ of them! He was nothing, nothing but what they'd made him. And it was their fault! It was because of them – it was __**because**__ of them!_

_ And he wanted to roar it to the heavens and roar it so that it would break his soul, that his soul might match his mind. They had driven him to this, they had __**made**__ this happen – they had forced his hand! They had given him no choice – they had __**made**__ it happen, and it was because of them!_

**X**

_** A/N: So it's been brought to my attention – and oh how grateful I am that it has – that I am alienating, and even offending, my readers with this story, because the listed pairing is Harry/Hermione instead of my usual H/G. Well. Look, I understand why that might be, but frankly, I can't decide what to write based on what my readers are going to want. It doesn't work that way; when writers write that way, they end up with the worst sort of trash imaginable, and I'm trying to avoid that.**_

_** So yes, this story is H/Hr. Yes, that is different than any of my other stories. Yes, that goes against the H/G orthodoxy of H/G-only forever and ever. But I just don't care. I am still an H/G shipper; but for once in my life, I've decided to write something different – and I can't believe there are people who are actually **__**offended**__** by that.**_

_** Chapter three will be up sometime next week. If you're all especially wonderful, it might be up sooner than that. **_

_** Please review.**_

_** PhoenixAeternum**_

_** December 6, 2010**_


	3. Godric's Hollow

_ An Author's Note:_

_ This chapter marks the beginning of the story – not in any narrative sense, but a literal one. Early on in this project, I decided not to post the first chapter of __Rebellion__ until I had at least three completed chapters – and that is the pace the story shall continue to march, with the second chapter posted when I have four complete chapters, with the third chapter posted when I have five complete chapters, and so it goes._

_ So it is with no small bit of joy that I write this latest entry. It's been over two years since I started to write and post a totally original story – it hasn't happened since __Phantasmatic__, in fact. It's always a wonderful feeling, to post something new, that no one's ever seen before._

_ Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter – it's more sort of a precursor to what follows than something that stands on its own, and after this chapter I shall begin to dabble in some more serious deviations in canon._

_ I hope you enjoy._

_ -PhoenixAeternum_

_ December 4, 2010_

**Rebellion  
****Godric's Hollow**

With a crack, Harry and Hermione, his and her hands entwined, materialized in Godric's Hollow. It had been over a week since Hermione initially suggested they pay the old village a visit, and that week had been a cold one. When they had left the forest they'd been camping in – a forest in the southwest of the country – the temperature at night would hover just above freezing. But now that they were further north – much further north, in fact – they found the township of Godric's Hollow covered in snow.

The unseasonable cold that had descended upon Britain since the previous year and the Dementors' release from Azkaban had not spared Godric's Hollow; while Harry couldn't be certain of the date, he knew that today fell in the first half of November – but even at Hogwarts, a place far north even from here, he could not remember a time when January's chill came in November.

"Well, this is it," Harry said rather lamely. While things with Hermione had gotten much better over the course of the last seven to ten days – really, ever since the day she suggested Godric's Hollow – he still found it difficult sometimes to talk to her. And now here in place where he was born and where his parents died, he found his tongue numbed by something other than the cold.

"Which way do you want to go?" Hermione asked. They had materialized, invisible beneath Harry's cloak and disguised by Hermione's Polyjuice, on what seemed to be the main road in town; to their left and northbound were several small shops, and to their right and southbound was a large church and a cemetery.

Harry nodded his head in the direction of the cemetery. He wanted to walk through it. He was sure his parents' graves would be there. But there was a tingle in his spine, and he felt there might be something more. There might be generations of Potters buried in that graveyard. He wanted to feel like he was looking into the Mirror of Erised again, wanted to feel like part of something older than himself, larger than himself, but smaller than what the Wizarding world had thrust upon him. He wanted to be someone's son, someone's grandson, and grandnephew; he wanted to be the last blood of an old family, for just one moment – anything but the last hope of a society on the brink of destruction.

His fingers were cold, he realized. He couldn't feel their tips, but could feel them laced with his companion's. They'd spent a lot of time like this lately, holding hands, her touching his arm, or brushing elbows or shoulders or forearms or fingers as they walked.

He thought of Ginny and what she would think, and guilt coiled inside him like a serpent ready to strike. But that's not what this was. This wasn't something that Ginny could have been upset by, could have disapproved of. She would have understood. Harry and Hermione were alone in the world, and neither had anyone, out here, on the run, but the other. He wasn't falling for Hermione. He was clinging to her. He needed to feel like he wasn't alone, and he hoped she would have known that that's all her touch was, that it was contact, that it was the only way to remind himself he wasn't alone, that he wasn't dead yet. Guilt uncoiled. He hoped she understood. Hermione was all he had.

He felt deadness in the pit of his stomach at his loneliness, but tendrils of hope were beginning to crawl over him. As he and Hermione got closer to the cemetery beside the church, he grew ever more hopeful. He just wanted something to affirm that he was here, that he had a past, even if that past was horrific. Even if his history was stained with blood, it would give him some sense that things went on before him. He couldn't pin-point why that was important to him, why it mattered if he had had a family once that existed without the thought of him. But something there comforted him even as their absence weighed heavily on him.

A locked gate stood before them, and it was without thought that Harry pulled out his wand and muttered _Alohamora_, and the gate creaked open. He took one breath to steady himself, another to ready himself, and stepped with Hermione into Godric's Hollow cemetery.

They walked slowly, the snow crackling with ever step, and looked carefully at each headstone. Some of them were so ancient, others so new, that Harry felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold. There were people buried in this cemetery that had died almost a thousand years ago. Of particular note was the oldest headstone they found, belonging to a wizard whose name was not given. All that was written across it was the year, in an unsteady carving: 1099.

With a squeeze, Harry unclasped his hand from Hermione's and motioned her off in one direction as he went in another. Though minutes before he had been clinging to her hand for reassurance, he wanted to be alone now. He felt that his direction was right, and he wanted to face it himself. He wanted to be alone with his family.

But as he passed through row after row of headstones, wiping snow away from some to better see the names carved into them, not one bore the name Potter, or any name he recognized at all. Ericksons and Smiths, Elsegoods and Alreds, and Brightmores and Ellwoods – but no Potters. Not one.

Disappointment was starting to fill him. Maybe none of them were here, not even his parents. Maybe their bodies had never been recovered. Maybe they'd been ruined in the collapse of the house. Maybe he was all that was left, and maybe he'd always been. Maybe not even their bones had survived Voldemort.

But within a minute of continuing to walk, he finally saw it. Etched faintly on a double headstone, seeming unnaturally aged, were the words he had hoped to see.

Inscribed upon the tombstone where two sets of names, dates of birth and of death, and beneath that an inscription: _The last enemy that shall be destroyed is Death. _He had found the grave of his parents. Slowly and with no sense of his own body, Harry lowered himself down to his knees before his parents' grave. They were buried there, in the earth beneath him. The better part of two decades separated them, but he felt such a closeness. They were right there. He reached out a shaking hand and touched their headstone.

He was shivering, and his face was burning. They were right here.

A hand fell on his shoulder and gripped it. He looked his head back and saw Hermione with unfalling tears in her eyes, tears that would never fall. His own face was beginning to contort, though no tears came to him. There were no tears for this, not from him. He placed a hand on Hermione's. Neither spoke, each communicating through the touch of hand to hand. Hermione gave a sad smile, the saddest, perhaps, he had ever seen, and with the hand that wasn't beneath Harry's, rose her wand, pointed it at the point where headstone met earth, and, without taking her sad, watery eyes from Harry, conjured a wreath of white roses.

With a grim smile of neither humor nor happiness, Harry gave his silent thanks to her. He rose, his head turned downward in solemn respect for his parents. With a sentiment halfway between sorrow and regret, he took Hermione's hand again and led her away from the cemetery. Though he could have spent a lifetime staring into the words etched into the headstone of the parents he'd never known, he knew there was more to be done here in Godric's Hollow.

They walked down the road away from the cemetery, away from the church, away from the point at which they'd earlier Apparated. They'd only been a few dozen steps from the cemetery when it happened.

_"Tell me, tell me – where is it? I know you have it... The Elder Wand!"_

_ "No, no, no, my lord, please, no – I swear it, I swear it!" _

_ "Crucio!"_

_ The old man's piteous moan, his death knell, grew louder, pierced the air and sky. He writhed there on the floor, helpless and powerless and all of him at the mercy of Lord Voldemort._

_ "Please! Please..." the man begged with a moan, gasping for breath, gasping for life. "Please, please, it was stolen... Stolen so long ago... Please!"_

_ The Dark Lord was incensed – stolen! The object he sought, the most powerful wand in the world, and it was gone. He could see into Gregorovitch's mind, weak and useless, and see that what he told him was true. It had been stolen, and the worthless man never knew the thief. _

_ He watched it play over once and again in Gregorovitch's mind, watched his memory of the thief stealing the wand. The man was unknown to him. It might be impossible to find. Rage – familiar, empowering rage – was filling him, and with his slitted eyes growing wider, a snarl on his lips, and his wand raised, he brought death down on the sniveling man before him._

_ "Avada Kedavra!"_

Harry fell to one knee, clutching his forehead and trying not to call out in pain. This vision of Voldemort had been more violent than usual, and the scared look on the old wandmaker's face had seared itself into Harry's mind.

"He's found Gregorovitch, Hermione. He's killed him." Harry was panting, his eyes burning. He had only begun to rise from his one knee when Hermione seized his arm and squeezed.

"Harry," she said, and Harry could hear that she was frightened, "look over there. There's someone... watching."

Twenty yards away, an ancient-looking woman stood, almost doubled over. She scuttled closer to where Harry and Hermione stood, and Harry brought himself to his feet and cautiously he and Hermione inched closer to the woman as well, until they were close enough that Harry knew who she was.

"That's Bathilda Bagshot, Hermione," Harry said under his breath, and he could feel her grasp his arm a little more firmly. "Dumbledore might have told her to keep an eye out."

Their Polyjuice had worn off sometime during Harry's vision of Voldemort, and their true selves were revealed as Bathilda Bagshot was within just a few feet of them, and then she spoke:

"Harry Potter?"

He nodded. "Yes – yes, I am Harry Potter."

She nodded twice in rapid succession. "Dumbledore..." she said slowly, and seemed to be struggling to speak her next word. "Dumbledore said you might come." Her eyes, thick with cataracts, ran over the pair of them, their hands entwined. "There should be three of you. Dumbledore said..." she trailed off again for a moment, like a reader losing her place. "Dumbledore said three."

Harry felt a tinge of anger not entirely his own. Hermione was shrinking against him. "Dumbledore was wrong about one of us. It's just us two now."

Bathilda Bagshot nodded slowly. "We need to get inside. He," she pointed to the sky, "is watching."

She motioned them to follow, turned, and hobbled down the road, Harry and Hermione following behind.

"She doesn't..." Hermione paused for a moment, "Harry, she doesn't seem right."

He brushed it off, speaking softly, "She knew Dumbledore when he moved to Godric's Hollow as a kid; she's just very old. It's all right – Dumbledore told her to wait for us. She could have the sword."

They walked for only a few minutes when, cast in illumination against the pale moonlight, Harry's eyes beheld a thing he thought he would never see.

It's top floor crumbling and bottom floor blown out, there ahead of them lay the ruins of a house undisturbed for the better part of two decades. He gave Hermione's icy fingers a quick squeeze then decoupled his from hers and increased his pace to walk side by side with Bathilda Bagshot, a question on his lips.

"Mrs. Bagshot – is that... I mean, that is my parents' house, isn't it?"

She nodded, but did not stop. "Not safe. We will talk inside."

He slowed his pace, falling back beside Hermione, a strange solemnity filling him. That was the place he killed them. "They died there," he said to no one in particular. He wanted to stop and stare awhile, but knew he couldn't. They were here for something more important than a memory tour. He wanted to stare at their wrecked home for hours, but knew it would not avenge them. Their memory was better served by the Sword of Gryffindor than by a grieving son's vigil.

A few minutes later, they had arrived at what must have been Bathilda Bagshot's house. They stepped inside, and were quickly led into the sitting room. Bathilda motioned to a sofa beside a small end-table adorned with pictures, and Harry and Hermione sat beside each other, and opposite them was Bathilda in a weathered armchair.

There was silence for a moment, punctuated only by Bathilda's occasional labored breathing. Now that they were in from the dark, in a room with a dozen floating candles, Harry could see just how ancient she really looked. Her eyes bulged and were streaked with red, and her skin was thin and looked like crumpled parchment. Her grey-white hair had grown thin, and what of it was left appeared stringy and unkempt.

"Do you have something for me, Mrs. Bagshot?" Harry asked, unable to keep hopeful anticipation out of his voice. Dumbledore had told her to keep watch for them, surely he must have left something with her intended for them – a weapon, a message. Anything.

"He..." she heaved a heavy breath, "He left something for you. Told me to lock it away, keep it safe." She rose – slowly, shakily – to her feet, closed her eyes, pulled a wand, and placed its tip to her temple. Her lips moved as if she were speaking, but she made no sound. This continued for almost a full minute, and then her eyes flashed open wide, and she spoke in a voice not her own:

"_Nurmengard_."

A sound like a shot rang out, and Bathilda's sitting room's window shattered. The first shot was followed by more shots, and streaks of light flooded the room. "DOWN!" Harry shouted, grabbing Hermione by the arm and flinging her and himself to the floor. "_Protego!_" he shouted, his wand pointed in the direction the curses were coming from.

He looked to his left in time to see Bathilda struck by a green curse, and Harry knew she was dead. The Death Eaters were nearly to the window now, still casting curses into the dead woman's home. "_Stupefy!_" Harry shouted blindly, and Hermione beside him cast a curse as well. "_REDUCTO!_" he roared, scrambling back to take cover behind Bathilda's armchair, Hermione moving with him.

The Death Eaters were stepping through the window into the sitting room now, and Harry took advantage of the moment to fire another Reducto at the ground near where several of them stood, knocking six Death Eaters off their feet and to the floor.

"Go!" Harry roared at Hermione. "Disapparate! GO!"

Hermione looked terrified and defiant, but the madness in Harry's eyes compelled her compliance. With a crack, she disapparated, while Harry hurled more curses toward the oncoming Death Eaters.

"_Confringo!_" he shouted, his wand pointed at a Death Eater's wand arm, and he saw the Death Eater's hand blasted away from his arm, now a bleeding stump. The Death Eater screamed, and Harry knew the voice – it was Draco Malfoy.

"_Avada Kedavra!_" someone shouted, and Harry barely avoided the Killing Curse.

"_Confringo!_" Harry shouted back, and from the sickening crunch the heard, he knew he'd hit another Death Eater.

"_Reducto!_" he bellowed, and he saw his curse connect with a Death Eater's shield.

"_Reducto!_" he called again, and the spell overpowered the Death Eater's Shield Charm, and collided with the man's head. He had killed.

"_Protego!_" he was forced to shout to block a yellow curse one of the Death Eaters had sent at him.

He heard a crack, and with horror that froze him to the bone, he saw Hermione apparate back into Bathilda Bagshot's house, and he saw a Death Eater take aim at her as soon as she materialized, and he heard a voice he knew begin an incantation to end her life. "_Ava–"_

Rage filled Harry.

Horrible rage.

His pointed his wand at Draco Malfoy, the Death Eater who meant to kill Harry's last companion, and with every ounce of hateful things in his bones, just a microsecond before another Death Eater turned his wand on Harry himself, he screamed before Malfoy could:

"_AVADA KEDAVRA!_"

**X**

**A/N: Ooh. **

** PhoenixAeternum**

** December 8, 2010**


	4. Lies

_ An Author's Note:_

_ So! A fourth chapter is upon us. Did you enjoy the last one? I think I rather did; the ending in particular was enjoyable for me. I wanted to say thank you to those of who you have hung on long enough to reach this point, and I wanted to especially thank those of you who review; I respond to every review this story receives, and I just want to emphasize how rewarding it is to receive feedback and encouragement from all of you. Without that encouragement, I can safely say I never would have written this story, or any of my previous stories. So thank you, truly, from the bottom of my heart, for being the best readers any author ever had._

_ All the best,_

_ PhoenixAeternum_

_ December 6, 2010_

**Rebellion  
****(Lies)**

With a crack that echoed through their forest hideaway, Hermione, her arm draped around Harry, appeared from nothing. Shaking, she lowered him down to the ground with great effort, and she gasped at seeing him; he was covered in blood and burns and his chest neither rose nor fell.

"Oh god," she said to herself, scrambling to the ground beside him and pulled out her wand, desperate to do something. Forgetting for a moment, as she had done so long ago, that she was a witch, she reached out her shaking hand and seized his wrist, then paused, stilling even her breath, as she anticipated a pulse that wouldn't come. "Oh god," she repeated, and she ran a hand quickly through his hair as she racked her brain for what to do.

She looked with mouth agape at her wand hand to see it clutching her only hope. Desperately, she thought back to the medical charms Dumbledore had included in the book of spells he had left for them, and for the thousandth time thanked the stars that he had done; she was sure they each would have died a dozen times over without it.

Remembering one to place the body in a sort of stasis, she waved her wand over his heart and muttered the incantation. A faint blue glow materialized, and she let out a small breath of relief – he was alive, and the stasis charm would keep him that way until she could work out what to do.

She clambered into their tent, and as quickly as she could, returned with Dumbledore's book of spells. She flipped through it frantically – the stasis charm would keep Harry from dying, at least for awhile, but every second he was incapacitated was another second she was alone in the world, another second they were twice as vulnerable to attack, capture, or death, another second he slipped closer toward a place he could not come back from.

It was with incredible relief that she found a spell marked _Defibrillatio_; with a shaking hand, she raised her wand and pointed it at Harry's heart. Her face contorted, and she wiped her eyes against her sleeve, and she whispered the incantation and moved her wand in circles around Harry's heart. "_Defibrillatio_."

Nothing happened. Or nearly so. There was a shock of blue lightning that shot into Harry's chest, but he did not stir. Dread filled Hermione. _No_, she thought to herself. _No_. He was all she had left – and she had given up everything she had to remain with him. Ron was gone, and she'd not gone with him. Her parents were gone, and she'd seen to it that they would never remember her, seen to it that they had never known her. Harry was every thing and the only thing left in the world she could hold on to – and she would not let him leave her now.

"_Defibrillatio!_" she intoned more forcefully as another shock of blue entered his chest and he failed to stir. "_Defibrillatio!_" she was almost shouting now, and the shock of blue had grown deeper in its blueness and wider in its diameter, and Harry had almost stirred, but continued to lay on the verge of eternity, still unmoving, still dying.

**XXX-XX-XXXX**

His panting and the falling of his feet was the only sound that broke the silence of the forest. He was running, desperate to escape, desperate to be away from here, from the four who chased him. He looked over his shoulder frantically as he fled – they had found him, they were after him they would have him.

Curses flew by him, some just inches from hitting their mark, and his desperation grew. He wouldn't be able to apparate with all of them attacking him at once. He had to get away, to find a place to stop – even for just a moment – so he could escape.

He didn't know how they'd found him, how they'd gotten through the enchantments he'd put up, how they had even know anything – let alone a wizard in hiding. He'd used the same enchantments Dumbledore had written down in the spell book now in Hermione's possession – every single one. Those spells should have rendered them undetectable. It was like they knew where to look, and what to look for.

He continued to sprint, running as fast as he'd ever done, and there was a large stump just a few hundred feet ahead of him. If he could get there fast enough, if he could avoid the volley of spells well enough, he could hide behind the stump for one second necessary to disapparate to safety.

A green jet blew by him, hit a tree, and immediately it was engulfed in hot red flame; the Snatchers weren't out to snatch him – they wanted him dead.

Wasn't he worth more alive to them? If they knew he was, didn't they know he could hand them Undesirables One and Two? He had thought his blood might have protected him, if he were caught; that at least he could trade Harry and Hermione's lives for family's, or even just his own. Weren't they more valuable than him? They wanted him dead.

The stump was just ahead of him now, but the snatchers were just behind; he didn't know if he'd have enough time, if he would or could escape.

Still sprinting, less than ten yards now from the stump, he looked back at the Snatchers, ready to throw a curse their way, to buy himself just a few tenths of a second, just enough time to delay them enough that he might escape. He looked over his shoulder in time only to see a green jet of light coming right for him, and fly into his face. And he crumpled to the ground and moved no more.

**XXX-XX-XXXX**

"_Defibrillatio!_" And she was almost roaring, and she would not let him die, and he could not die. He could not leave her to carry on on her own, she wouldn't let him. He could not die, not then, not there, not ever, not while she yet lived.

"_DEFIBRILLATIO!_" And with a lightning bolt from the tip of her wand that collided with his heart, Harry more than stirred or shook – he sprung up, sitting up straight, his eyes open wide and looking into Hermione's without seeing, without knowing where he was and how, or who she was and why, but two words and the smallest smile formed on his lips before he fell back to the earth and lost all consciousness:

"You're alive."

**X**

_**A/N: This chapter marks the first of what will likely end up a half dozen or so chapters like it – that is, bits which are more interludes than proper chapters. These will be marked with parentheses around the chapter title. For instance, this chapter was entitled (Lies). And yes, this chapter's title is indeed a reference to the song 'Rebellion (Lies)' by Arcade Fire. Very clever, right? Anyway, thanks for reading everyone; next chapter will be here before you know it.**_

_** Oh, and one last thing. I've come up with an idea – everyone who reviews from an FFN account (that is, all reviewers who aren't reviewing anonymously) will receive in my review reply a 250-word sneak peak to the next chapter. It will usually be the first 250 words of the next chapter, but depending on how I feel about the chapter's beginning, it might be something in the middle or the end – sometimes even a snippet of the climactic bits. So – please review. I'll make it worth your while.**_

_** All my best,**_

_** PhoenixAeternum**_

_** December 10, 2010**_


	5. The Dream of a Normal Life

_ An Author's Note:_

_ We have now come to chapter five of __Rebellion__, and I would like to thank you for keeping up with the story, especially if you're one of my old readers from my H/G days. I feel a kind of... sadness for those old readers of mine who might have been excited to see I had updated, or posted something new, only to discover it is not H/G, but H/Hr; and so to those of you who have been reading my stories for the five years I've been writing them, I thank you for sticking with it and giving this story a chance._

_ Now, this chapter is a proper chapter – not like the last one, which, as I said, was more interlude than proper chapter. Though, to be fair to this chapter, and to manage expectations, it should be said that this chapter is really the next chapter's little brother – next chapter is where the __real__ fun is._

_ And one last thing: Following on last week's deal regarding previews, I've decided something a bit more ambitious: Effective this chapter and stretching on until the second-to-last, anyone who has reviewed every chapter of this story will receive the next unreleased chapter; today that means that if you have reviewed chapters one through five you will receive, via PM, the entirety of chapter six. But! You've got to have reviewed every chapter of this story – and don't try writing the same review of every chapter. That's cheating. _

_ Anyway, best to you all, and I hope I start PM-ing out chapter six to many of you very soon._

_ PhoenixAeternum_

_ December 7, 2010_

**Rebellion  
****The Dream of a Normal Life**

Hermione had found herself pacing a lot lately. It had been almost a full twenty four hours since she and Harry had escaped the disaster at Godric's Hollow, and she must have spent at least half of those twenty four hours pacing. There just wasn't much she could do. The protective enchantments were up and active, and she didn't feel the need to sit outside the tent waiting to see if any Muggles or Snatchers should happen to walk by.

But Harry was still unconscious. He hadn't stirred since she'd last used the defibrillation charm and levitated him into his makeshift bed, and there simply wasn't much she could do for him. She didn't know how to – or even if she should – feed him in that state. The only thing that had really required her attention had been about six hours ago when Harry – and she had resolved to never tell him – had wet himself.

She knew that this was the way things happened; when someone was comatose, or otherwise unconscious, for reasonably long periods of time, they had no control over many of their bodily functions, of which one was the urge to urinate. And, absence any ability to attempt restraint, the bladder, when full, would empty itself.

Harry would be humiliated. He might never look at her again, if he knew what he had done, and what she had done in response. But it couldn't be helped; she couldn't just leave him like that.

And so it had been with utmost care – and utmost embarrassment – that she had first pulled back his sheets, taken off his pants and boxers, and – trying not to look – had shimmied him into a pair of pajama bottoms. The only the episode had made her feel more strongly than embarrassment had been pity, sorrow for the state of him, for his own sake. He would be mortified to know what had happened, despite having had not the least control over it, and it was for that reason she resolved to never tell him about it.

She thought back to everything that had led them to this, indulging in the sort of nostalgic fantasy that she rarely allowed herself. She thought back to the first time she'd ever met him – seven years ago on a train to a strange and magical place that would change her life forever. He must have been as scared as she had been. And she had been so scared.

Her fears – every one of them – had been some times validated and other times refuted in that first year. The time before the troll had been the hardest. She had been so very alone. She had always been, really, until then.

When she had gone to Muggle school, she had always felt like she didn't quite fit in; when she had attended school, she'd thought perhaps she was just cleverer than the others, and that she didn't fit in with them because she was so clever. But she thought now, years later and with the aid of retrospect, that maybe it hadn't been cleverness; maybe, in thinking back on those years of her life, maybe she had felt so different because magic had begun to manifest even then. She remembered her incidences of accidental magic, the bewilderment of her teachers and headmaster for the occasionally incredible things she'd done, or the unusual things that had happened when she was around.

She remembered how excited she'd been when she got her Hogwarts letter, how cautious and skeptical her parents had been at first when Professor McGonagall had come to her home to discuss the matter with her parents. She remembered her excitement at learning magic, and at being at a school where such incredible things occurred every day.

But she could remember, if she chose to, what had really excited her about Hogwarts before she had gone. She could remember, though she rarely chose to, how excited she'd been to be around people who were like her, who would understand her, who would want her, and embrace her, and be _her's_. _Her_ people. She could remember how excited she'd been.

But also how completely disappointment had followed. She remembered the crushing sadness she'd felt after three weeks of no friends to speak of. Harry was friendly, but only friendly; Neville likewise; the other girls in her dormitory also, but they held her at a distance – friendly, but never so friendly as to be her friends, and never going out of their way to be friendly, friendly only within the confines of a dormitory too small for ill feelings.

Ron might have been the worst, or maybe Malfoy. One disdained her for her knowledge – and she was only able to convince herself it stemmed from jealousy for so long. The other disdained her for her blood, and that was something she had not fathomed when she came to Hogwarts. She had read of half-bloods and purebloods and Muggle-borns, but the books didn't speak to the nastiness of it all; she had heard the term mudblood, knew its definition, but its meaning wasn't clear until she'd been called it by a boy her own age.

After the troll incident, though, things had changed. She was as happy in those few months between the troll and Quirrell as she perhaps had ever been. She had friends. True friends. Friends like she'd never had before – friends like she used to wonder why she didn't have, friends like she had seen others have all her life, friends like she had always envied. She had friends. They were imperfect, but their imperfections made them perfect; even Ron, she thought now with some sadness, and his bickering and squabbling and occasional thoughtlessness or even stupidity – even Ron, she counted as the truest of friends.

She wasn't sure when things began to degenerate. She wasn't even sure degeneration was really what happened, or if, their friendship having peaked, what followed was the natural leveling of a friendship. But things changed. Her second year was spent in mingled terror and dread – both of the same, of the Heir of Slytherin, of what might be behind any tapestry, waiting after any corner.

She remembered being so afraid for Harry; first when he'd been hearing voices – she had briefly considered the possibility that Voldemort had driven him mad. But what worried her more was the ostracization that inevitably followed when Hogwarts learned he was a Parselmouth. She hadn't known what to do. And unknowing was paralysis – the paralysis that faced her now.

She looked down at Harry. He was very pale. She wished she'd known what curse he had been hit with, but she hadn't seen it. One moment he was roaring the Killing Curse, the next he was on the ground, unmoving. She had scrambled over to him, apparated them away from Godric's Hollow, to the relative safety of their campsite.

She looked around the tent. She didn't know for how much longer this would be their home. While Dumbledore had left them a book of spells with a dozen protective enchantments perfect to erect around a site – some enchantments the likes of which Hermione had never heard, if she were honest with herself. She wondered if she and Harry might live out the rest of their lives here in this tent, searching for Hocruxes and Hallows decade after decade. The thought filled her with something she couldn't place.

She didn't want to die. Not here, in this tent. She didn't want to die at all.

She didn't know why, but Ron came to her mind. Ron, who had left them. Ron, who had been their closest friend, but who had proven disloyal. Ron... Ron whom she missed so badly it made her heart bleed. She thought they had had something – or the beginnings of something. Everything that had happened in their sixth year had reinforced that, that there was something between them. They had even acknowledged it at the Burrow, and they had occasionally spoken of it out here on the road, but had agreed not to act, for Harry's sake.

Ron had abandoned them. But more than that... more than that, he had abandoned her. He had given up, decided he'd had enough. She wasn't enough reason for him to stay. Never mind that Harry, it turned out, wasn't either. She had begged him to stay. Those were her last words to him. _Ron, please_, she'd begged. _Please don't go_. But he'd gone. He'd left her behind, and Harry too, to carry on alone. To struggle to survive alone. To fight Voldemort alone. Alone. They were alone now. And the way things were going, the trajectory of things, they would die alone, with no one in the world but each other, each yearning for someone else. Together, but so alone.

She thought, as she sometimes had since Ron left, of what life would be like if he hadn't. If there had been three of them against the Death Eaters instead of two, Harry might not be comatose right now. He might not be pale as the brightest moon. They might all be laughing, talking of something from the Hogwarts days. They might have been commiserating, they might have been mourning, and even that would be alright. At least then they wouldn't be alone.

She didn't realize until they had streaked her cheeks that there were tears in her eyes. She sighed in frustration. Tears wouldn't help her, and more than that, there could be no comfort excerpt from herself. Harry was in no position to comfort anybody. She looked over to him again. He looked awful. So this is what all his stays in the Hospital Wing would have him looking like, were it not for Madam Pomfrey. Not for the first time, she wished she'd taken the time to learn more medical spells. She hadn't even known what was wrong with him, and had had only the slimmest hope that the defibrillation charm would even work. It was luck, far more than anything else, that accounted for Harry's survival.

Pulling her wand from her pocket, she conjured a simple cup, filled it with water with _Aguamenti_, and dipped one of her unused shirts in it. She sat down beside Harry and dabbed the damp cloth on his forehead. She wasn't sure this was helping; she had never bothered to look into whether this ritual, which she had seen a hundred times on television, actually served any purpose. She didn't know how it could, absent a fever, but she didn't know what else to do. At least in doing this, she could feel like she was helping.

With her free hand, she reached out and brushed his hair back and away from his forehead. His scar was a bright pink against his pale skin. She kept her hand on his hair, and she stroked it. She didn't think anything of it, and, one hand in his hair and the clutching a soggy top, she dabbed at his forehead again.

It was difficult to think of him in the terms fate had cast him. He was, and had always been, Harry. Just Harry. Harry Potter, the nervous boy she'd met on the train, who spent far too long beneath the Sorting Hat, who was gawked at by some and made an example of by others. He was just Harry, a little boy who cared a little too much, but didn't want to show it.

He wasn't the Boy Who Lived – he was a boy who just wanted to live.

She continued to stroke his hair, but she'd stopped dabbing water on his forehead. It seemed pointless now. She looked intently at his face, gazing into him.

She didn't know when he had stopped being a scared boy alone in the world. She wasn't sure when he'd become the warrior-prince of the light, the chosen one, the anointed-in-wait. Circumstance had taken Harry for a ride. He'd had his parents murdered before he ever knew them; had seen, and in some ways brought about, the death of the only surrogate parent he'd ever had, his godfather Sirius; he'd been helpless witness to Dumbledore's death from atop the Astronomy Tower, at the hands of a professor he'd known for six years; he'd had to leave his girlfriend to travel the world in search of those things which might render Voldemort at last vulnerable; and he'd endured the betrayal and abandonment of his best and closest friend, his comrade in arms and in peace. They'd been the best of friends, and Ron had abandoned him completely.

Though she thought her year could rival his. Erasing her parents' memories had been the most painful thing she'd ever done. With no goodbyes, and just two flicks of her wand, she had undone eighteen years of family. She knew she would never see them again. She could feel tears beginning to form again, but shut her eyes firmly against them. They wouldn't help her now.

She sighed deeply. She had known things would be hard. But if she were honest with herself – if she were very, very honest – she hadn't know things would be this bad. She wouldn't parrot Ron's anger – whatever he might have said, they both knew that Harry had related to the two of them everything Dumbledore had told him. But she thought they might have progressed further than this by now. And it irked her every day that Dumbledore had never gotten to telling Harry how to destroy a Horcrux, though logically she knew that he had meant to when they returned from the cave with the locket.

Her eyes were burning now with something other than tears. She hadn't slept except for a few minutes since they had returned from Godric's Hollow, and so not properly since the night before that. She knew she would have to fall asleep sooner or later, and she'd fought it for as long as she could.

Her hand drifted down from Harry's hair to stroke his cheek for just a fleeting moment, and then she nestled both her hands around Harry's left. She would be here if he woke and needed anything. She would never leave, not like Ron had. She wouldn't leave him.

With lids too heavy to keep open, her head tilted back in her chair, her eyes rolled, and she was asleep.

**XXX-XX-XXXX**

_The sun was shining high in the sky, but the earth onto which it shone was covered in frost. Tall buildings stood high across the skyline, black against the golden, falling sky. At the base of one of those buildings, millions of miles beneath the golden sun, two people, arms linked, and dressed in heavy coats, placed a key in a keyhole and turned it, unlocking the door to the building. _

_ Hermione stepped forward, decoupling herself from Harry, smiling and leading the ascent of the stairs to their flat on the seventh level. She turned her head back and grinned eagerly at Harry, grabbing his hand and pulled him along, hurrying him up the stairs. _

_ They reached the door to their flat, and Hermione swung it open with enthusiasm, revealing a simple and modest flat with a sofa twenty years too old to be fashionable and few real furnishings otherwise, with no pictures to speak of and nothing but a telly opposite the sofa to show that real people really lived here. _

_ The flat was small, just a small room that blended into a small kitchen, a small bedroom, with a small closet, and small bathroom to complete the set. It was nothing special, and they had to take care not to have too many personal effects around for fear of being discovered, but it was a comfortable place to spend some time._

_ Harry stepped through the threshold and into the main room, grinning as he did. He loved it when she got like this, when her smile set her eyes ablaze with happiness. It was something the thought, a long time ago, he might never see again, and he treasured every glint of her eyes._

_ He had taken only two steps in, had only just closed the door behind him, when Hermione threw her arms around his neck and guided him down to kiss her lips. He kissed her lightly at first, but her enthusiasm infected him, and no sooner had he begun to return her alacrity than she broke off, her arms still around his neck, his arms still around her back, and brown eyes stared into green, and she had a grin on her face – that enthusiastic grin that had served him very, very well the last five years._

_ She reached herself up to his lips again, kissing him softly, but pulled back after only a few moments, and he could see the glinting in her eyes, and he knew where this was going, and it was with the most content confidence he'd ever known that she grabbed him by the hand and led him to the bedroom, and by the promise of the light in her eyes, and of the enthusiasm those eyes held, he followed._

**XXX-XX-XXXX**

Hermione woke from her dream, startled by sudden movement. Harry was awake. He was sitting straight up in his bed, though it looked like doing so required all his energy. He looked ahead without looking at anything, but the words, as they formed on his lips, were imbued with terrible urgency.

"Nurmengard," he said, and Hermione's thoughts were taken from her dream and to the present with incredible force. "Nurmengard, Hermione – we must go to Nurmengard."

**X**

_**A/N: So, there we have it. Chapter 5. This one's really quite remarkable actually – I can't remember the last time I wrote a 3000 word chapter this quickly (in about 3 and a half hours). Also somewhat remarkable: This chapter marks the first time in... four years? Well, something like that – anyway, it's the first time in a long time I've written a story and gotten it **__**past**__** chapter four. A little bit of a personal milestone. Next chapter will be up within the week, and don't forget – go back and review every chapter of this story so far, including this one, and I will PM you chapter six – same day.**_

_** Best,**_

_** PhoenixAeternum**_

_** December 12, 2010**_


	6. Killer

_ An Author's Note:_

_ I've gotten a couple questions as to how long I intend this story to be. The answer is somewhere between twenty and twenty-five chapters. I've got it in my head that I'd really like to break 75,000 words, but it will span until the conclusion of canon-DH, and I have no intentions to take it further than that or to embark on a sequel. But as this is only chapter six, it's a little early for such speculation; I would urge those of you who fret over such things to sit back, relax, and take it as it comes._

_ My best,_

_ PhoenixAeternum_

_ December 8, 2010_

**Rebellion  
****Killer**

It had been less than 24 hours since Harry had awoken, and despite Hermione's insistence they could go to Nurmengard, but not until he was strong enough to travel, and that he really need to _stay in bed_, Harry was constantly up and moving and trying to prepare to leave. Hermione didn't know what to do with him – she thought of magically keeping him in bed, but she didn't think a body-bind curse was the proper response to this particular situation.

And in addition to fretting about Harry's health – he still looked like death, even if he was conscious now – she couldn't stop thinking of that dream she'd had. _That dream_ which was now and forevermore burned into her mind and memory.

Sure, she'd had dreams before. Dreams about the boys in her life. She used to dream of Ron quite frequently, in fact, and while still at Hogwarts, she had occasionally dreamed about Harry, or even Neville once. But they were only ever dreams, and she accepted them as such, romantic though they may have been – she was a teenage girl with a teenage girl's hormones. Dreaming of the boys she knew in romantic contexts was hardly to be considered unusual. She'd always been able to put those dreams or idle thoughts aside after a few moments, however, but now... She couldn't get the thought out of her head. It wouldn't budge, not for more than a few moments at a time. She was _transfixed_ by it. It was like a thing from which she couldn't look away.

She caught herself thinking about it and was embarrassed every time, but not as embarrassed as she was when _Harry_ caught her thinking about it. She'd look off into the distance for a few moments, and Harry would ask her what was going on, and... She sighed.

That damn boy had to wake at just that moment, too. He couldn't have waited another half hour? She was sure that would have been long enough for her _dream_ to – er – finish.

With that thought, Harry was up again, protesting more loudly than he had before.

"Hermione, Dumbledore left that message for me – I know he did, Bathilda knew he did. It was for me, because he wants us to go to Nurmengard and see Grindelwald. Grindelwald was his best friend once – he could know anything, maybe everything, about the Hallows, or maybe even the Horcruxes. Dumbledore left that message for me, and I can't imagine it isn't urgent. We've got to go now!"

Hermione sighed, put her hands on her hips, and glared at Harry. "We will go to Nurmengard, and we will talk with Grindelwald. But not until you've recovered _some_! God, Harry, you were almost killed – you need _rest_, not to be off performing _transcontinental_ apparition."

Harry looked at her with a frustrated glare, but Hermione did not relent. "We will go as soon as you're well enough to travel. But we can't go immediately. You've barely eaten and you look like death warmed over - we'll go, but not yet. Okay?"

He nodded, but she could see it was a struggle. "Fine," he said tersely. "But if you still don't think I'm ready by tomorrow morning, I'm going anyway. You can come with me or I can go without you, but I need to see him, and I need to see him soon, or You-Know-Who will get there first."

Hermione nodded, but it was reluctant, and its reluctance irritated Harry. Why couldn't she understand? This was important – it could be monumentally important. It could be the biggest thing since Dumbledore had told him of the Hallows the day he died. It could be the opening of the flood gates, the secret to the Hallows or the Horcruxes or both. But she didn't understand, she wanted him to stay in bed and rest. Why couldn't she understand?

He sighed in frustration. Hermione had squeezed his hand and left to go bathe in a stream down about a quarter mile from their campsite. _Good for her_, he supposed, but it wouldn't help them find any more Horcruxes or destroy the one they had.

He thought back to the other day, the day they'd gone to Godric's Hollow. It had seemed so obviously the right thing to do at the time; even his rationalizations for going, to cover up wanting to see the place his parents had died, had been good enough reasons in their own right – and they had been proven right. Bathilda Bagshot had had something for them, though admittedly not a weapon like the Sword of Gryffindor, it nevertheless had the potential to be highly useful. Or perhaps a trap.

It was the worry he hadn't confided in Hermione; that perhaps Voldemort had been the one who planted the message, not Dumbledore. It was simply too coincidental: no sooner than Bathilda had said the word, than that Death Eaters showed up, a dozen of them, give or take a few. It was too coincidental by far.

But he didn't see a way around it. He couldn't ignore the possibility that it had, in fact, been Dumbledore who had left the message for him. And so the best he could do is hope for the possibility that it had been Dumbledore, and prepare for the possibility that it had been Voldemort, and that an ambush awaited them at Nurmengard.

He thought again of the attack at Godric's Hollow. He had been so stupid to not anticipate it; of course there would be an attack awaiting them as soon as they arrived. It was Godric's Hollow – the one place, excerpt perhaps Hogwarts – that Harry was more likely to go to than any other. And Voldemort, for all his insanity and his evil, knew Harry well. Better, sometimes, than Harry knew even himself.

He remembered very little of how the attack at Godric's Hollow ended; and he didn't remember returning at all. The last thing he remembered was Draco Malfoy's voice, and his eyes, and his wand raised and pointed right at Hermione, and there were words on his lips – those words, the words that would strike her dead. And he remembered what he had done. He had killed Draco Malfoy. He had murdered him. And he was a killer now, and he could feel it in his soul. He had killed a man – a boy, no older than him, and in many ways far younger. He had killed a boy he'd known for the better part of a decade.

His hands were shaking, and he closed his eyes and took a breath to steady himself. He didn't feel right anymore. It didn't consume him, this feeling, but it was always present, and he thought it might always be.

In all the times he had fought Death Eaters or other evils, including Voldemort himself, he had never killed. Never, not once. He'd injured people, he hoped, maybe even put them out of commission for weeks. But he had never killed until Godric's Hollow. He felt it like a stain on his soul, and it deadened his chest, and it rest upon him like a weight that wouldn't leave him.

It was growing dark now, and Hermione would be back soon. Deciding that if he wanted to grab Dumbledore's spell book, that there could be no time but now, he rose shakily, crossed the tent to the table near the entrance, and pulled the book from Hermione's bottomless beaded bag.

He returned to his bed, pulled the covers back over himself, and opened the book. He had read every word on every page on the book probably a dozen times since Scrimgeour had visited at the Burrow to give he and Hermione – and Ron – Dumbledore's bequests. He had read the book a dozen times, and was amazed by how little of it he had heard of, and how even less of it he thought would be particularly useful. But there were a few spells of particular use, and it was one spell in particular that he sought out now, an offensive spell he had only seen once, by Dumbledore's wand in the cave on the day the Headmaster died.

He had to be prepared for whatever trap might await them at Nurmengard.

**XXX-XX-XXXX**

Hermione entered the tent slowly, each step taken gingerly. The sun was setting now, and her soaked-wet hair was in a tight bun atop her head. She looked over at Harry who was deep in sleep. He'd tried so hard all day to act like he had the strength to all of the things he normally would, but she saw how his knees shook after he'd stand, and nothing could hide how pale white his skin had turned.

She knew he was trying to put on an act for her, afraid, perhaps, that she would find him weak and helpless, and their cause hopeless, and she would leave as Ron had done. But she wouldn't. She'd sworn to herself, and she'd promised to him, she wouldn't ever leave. This journey they were on might be the last one she ever undertook, and she had always known that. She thought Ron had known too.

There was some black humor in being able to think of Ron now. For weeks, she had been unable to think his name, or of his hair, or the color red at all, without this pang of deepest hurt in her heart. But now, something had changed. She could think his name, of his betrayal, and all she felt was betrayal. Not the hurt and pain and despair that she'd known, but a betrayal that shut off other emotion. There wasn't longing, nor pain for his absence. Only the feeling that he had been disloyal; that she had stayed, but he had abandoned her and Harry both. The feeling was different, and there was something in there inexplicable but comforting.

She looked on Harry again and thought, guiltily, of the dream she had had of them, and of London and a little flat all their own. That was something they would never have – that future. For one, Harry was Ginny's, and everyone knew it. And for as much as she had been hurting by Ron's absence, she knew Harry also suffered from Ginny's, even if her absence was at his insistence. It wasn't easy for him, but he hid it well. It was rare for her to see the longing she knew so well in his eyes, but there were unmistakeable glimpses.

She didn't know how she felt about Harry. If the dream was just a dream – albeit one she couldn't get out her head – or if there was something more. If she had actual feelings for him. She knew whatever feelings she might have – and she wasn't ready to concede she had any at all – would necessarily be born of being out here with him, both of them alone and neither with any one but the other. She knew it was a fleeting fantasy of two desperate people who, in their hearts of hearts, knew they would die before their journey was complete. She knew whatever drew him to him was desperate. But she _was_ desperate.

With a sigh of more than frustration, she crossed over to the glorified cot she called a bed, the one two feet from Harry's, and lay herself down. They would have to be up very early the next morning – no later than dawn. But she was tired enough from the last two days that, though the sun had only just set, she need little more than set her head to her pillow than she was asleep.

**XXX-XX-XXXX**

_"Dumbledore never killed if he could help it." The voice came from out of the shadows of a dark hall, and the speaker stepped forward two steps, basked in half light and shadow. It was Draco Malfoy. His arm was bleeding where Harry had blasted off his hand. His eyes were lifeless and flat. "What about you?"_

_ A whirl of smoke and Malfoy was gone, but in his place stood the fallen Sirius Black: "I know you hated him, Harry, but he was my nephew – and you__**killed**__ him! I thought we were supposed to be the good guys – that it was the Death Eaters that killed people."_

_ Another whirl of smoke, and Sirius was gone also; but now it was Hagrid in his place: "Yer a killer, Harry."_

_ Another whirl, and it now was his parents entwined:_

_ "You murdered a boy, Harry?" It was his father's voice, and he might never have seen anyone so disappointed and angry at once. "You used an Unforgivable Curse? You used the __**Killing Curse**__, Harry? That's dark magic, boy. You're not my son – no son of mine would be a dark wizard."_

_ "I can't believe I gave birth to a monster," Lily, his mother, said with such scorn. "A monster and a killer, and –"_

_ And from the smoke now his Aunt Petunia was with Lily and James. "And a freak!" she spat._

_ And the smoke once more, and it was Ginny, and her disgust was all over her face: "I never loved you – I could never love a murderer."_

_ And then from the smoke came Ron, and behind him the twins: "This is why I left," Ron said, "so I wouldn't have to see you turn into a murderer – nothing but a filthy killer, no better than the Death Eaters."_

_ And the twins behind him threw a sack of galleons at his feet. "We don't want your blood money."_

_ And now it was Molly and Arthur Weasley, and they wouldn't even look at him: "What a disappointment you've become; I once thought of you like a son – I know better now," Molly Weasley said._

_ And then it was Dumbledore, and he was dressed in flowing robes of white, and his beard was paler than it had been in life. "You have failed me, Harry."_

_ And worst, worse than any of the others – worse than all the others – was the last. And it was Hermione who come from the smoke, and she looked distraught, hurt beyond words at what he'd done. "You killed him, Harry... You didn't need to kill him..."_

_ And Dumbledore turned to Hermione, and he urged her on with what she was to do. "He deserves as good as he's given, Ms. Granger."_

_ "I loved you, Harry," she said as tears streaked down her face. "But you've left me with no other choice – you've made me do this. I __**loved **__you! But you've lost yourself, and you've left me with no choice but this!"_

_ Dumbledore turned to her and nodded._

_ And she raised her wand, and it was pointed right in his eyes, and he couldn't shut his eyes or blink or turn away from those terrible words he knew he deserved. Anguish on her face, but nothing to the anguish in his heart: A green jet and the sound of rushing death would end his fate._

_ "Avada Kedavra!"_

**X**

_** A/N: I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I really struggled with it for awhile, but I'm pretty pleased with how it's turned out; particularly the end of it.**_

_** This chapter was, initially, merged with about half of the next chapter, but then that sort of broke up the Grindelwald experience into two parts, and so I thought it better to end here and keep Grindelwald all in the one chapter.**_

_** Anyway, I hope you've enjoyed it. As always, reviews are most appreciated, and I hope you come back for chapter seven, when we finally, properly go to Nurmengard.**_

_** Oh yes, two last orders of business – (P)review rules apply: anyone who has reviewed every chapter of this story currently posted (at the moment, chapters 1-6) will receive, via PM, chapter 7. Well worth the twenty seconds it takes to review? I think so. Also, I've got a blog now – find a link in my profile; it's set as my homepage. **_

_** All my thanks,**_

_** PhoenixAeternum**_

_** December 14, 2010**_


	7. Nurmengard

_An Author's Note:_

_ So this actually used to be the second half of the previous chapter; and that chapter, when it was still this one and the one before it, was going to cut off about halfway through. But I decided that Harry's dream was a better stopping point than the one I initially had, and so we have the present situation._

_ This is when things get fun, so I hope you enjoy what pleasures wait. _

_ PhoenixAeternum_

_ December 9, 2010_

**Rebellion  
****Nurmengard**

Nurmengard, Harry had decided, was terrifying.

Traveling to it had in and of itself taken several hours – they'd had to apparate first to Brighton, from Brighton to Calais, from Calais to Paris, then onto Stuttgart, from Stuttgart to Munich, and lastly from Munich to Nurmengard. Or rather, as close to Nurmengard as they could get: no one could apparate into or disapparate out of Nurmengard – one of its many security features. The closest they could get was a forested area about five miles out from the tall black fortress itself.

The two of them had had to trek, in the early morning light, through that dark forest for near to an hour before coming close enough to be able to see the black building itself.

It stretched high into the sky, and was made of jet-black stone that might have shone had there been sunlight; the sky overhead was heavily grey, shrouded in clouds, and looked like soon they would bring rain.

Surrounding the tower was a tall defensive wall, made of the same black stone; before Harry and Hermione was a single gateway, above which read "Für Das Größere Wohl."

"For the Greater Good," Hermione explained to Harry. "It was Grindelwald's... slogan when he was in power. He claimed that all his acts were undertaken for the greater good. It was his mantra, his justification for everyone he ever killed and everything he ever destroyed."

As he thought might happen, rain now was falling from the sky in little drops, barely enough to get wet in but just enough to obscure their position. Hermione reached into her bottomless beaded bag and extracted Harry's invisibility cloak, handing it to him and then rapping first Harry and then herself on the head. Harry felt the familiar feeling of the Disillusionment Charm doing its work.

Hermione grabbed his hand. It was an odd thing to have done to you when the person grabbing your hand is invisible, and when you yourself are as well. She grabbed his hand, and he was struck by how cold it was. It was relatively warm out, considering they were only a couple of weeks from the start of winter, but her fingers were like ice laced with his.

He squeezed her hand, hoping to warm her up, and threw the cloak over them both. They were a bit tall to both fit beneath it now, but no one would notice, he hoped, their Disillusioned feet walking along without bodies above them.

**XXX-XX-XXXX**

It took nearly an hour of avoiding guard after guard, and it took no small amount of Hermione's cleverness to get past certain magical obstacles, but they had reached the floor beneath Grindelwald's cell. That they were able to get as far as they had was really quite something, though Hermione reckoned Nurmengard was built more to keep people in than keep them out, especially now that it was no longer the prison of Grindelwald's enemies, but of Grindelwald himself.

Still, the lack of adequate defenses worried Harry. Most floors had only one guard, and only one so far had had more than three. It seemed to him as if something were off; surely Grindelwald was worth taking the extra expense to keep locked up. He had terrorized the continent for years before his defeat at Dumbledore's hands, yet there seemed to be only a couple dozen guards in the entire tower.

Harry worried, but kept those worries to himself. They were almost to the top cell, where Grindelwald was being held. They were climbing up a set of stairs and had reached the landing, and they could see the door just feet from them, when it swung open.

Not being detected was essential; he couldn't know how many of the guards were trustworthy – some of them may even have belonged to Voldemort.

Quickly as they could – which, given they had to walk in concert under a cloak meant to fit a single adult male, was not very quick at all – they moved into the corner of the landing, Harry behind Hermione, up against the wall and both facing the guard.

He looked unsuspecting enough, but the guard was headed right for them, probably to head down the stairs to a level below.

Harry placed his hand on Hermione's stomach and pulled her closer to him, trying to get both of them as close to the wall as possible. Hermione seemed to shake for a moment, and he held his hand on her stomach, trying to steady her. The slightest sound could betray them, and Harry did not want to alert anyone to their presence. He was certain Death Eaters, or at least some who sympathized with Voldemort, were watching this place for any signs of disturbance.

He felt Hermione's stomach recede as she sucked in a silent breath, trying to make herself as small as possible. The guard was inches from them, and he'd stopped at the top of the stairs. He looked like he'd seen a ghost.

"Ist..." the guard trailed off just as he'd started, and he looked worried. "Ist jemand da?"

Harry was very slowly raising his wand, readying to attack the guard.

But just as his wand was pointed at the guard's chest, the guard seemed to shake himself a little, give a nervous chuckle, and went down the stairs.

Harry breathed a silent sigh of relief as soon as the guard exited the stairwell through a door a couple landings below.

"Come on," he whispered in Hermione's ear, and he felt her shaking again. "Are you alright?"

"Oh – yes, sorry. Just cold," she said.

He nodded against her hair and removed his hand from where he had been resting it on her stomach. They walked the few steps remaining between them and the door that granted access to the top level of Nurmengard, and he slowly pulled it open.

There was no one. The top level was entirely empty, except for a wrought-iron door off to the left. There were no guards at all, nor any furnishings or adornments of any sort. All there was were torches along the walls and the cold stone floor beneath their feet, and that door against the wall, that wrought-iron door, and he knew it must be the door to Grindelwald's cell.

There was magic emanating from it. He could feel it. And it grew stronger as he and Hermione stepped closer. It was like being back in the cave he and Dumbledore had traveled to on the day of the latter's death. Magic was everywhere around this door.

They moved ever more cautiously forward, inching closer and closer to that door until they were right up before it and Harry reached his arm forward, reaching his hand onward, closer. He touched the iron door.

"Wer bist du?" asked a voice within. After a moment of silence, the voice called again, "Who are you?"

"We are friends of Dumbledore."

There was a sound of recognition from within the cell. "You have finally come. I had wondered..."

There was a clicking sound, and the door opened to reveal the once great Gellert Grindelwald. "Our time is running out," he said. "The Dark Lord follows."

Harry pulled the cloak off of himself and Hermione, and nodded solemnly. "I thought that he might. He's got to have people watching this place. You're too powerful, and it's only a matter of time before he realizes just who stole the Elder Wand from Gregorovitch in the first place."

Hermione cast a curious glance at Harry. She hadn't known it was Grindelwald who had stolen the wand from Gregorovitch. And looking at Harry, she caught the merest glimpse of uncertainty – perhaps he wasn't sure either, but merely had a hunch.

Grindelwald gave a grin, exposing mouth that had been neglected over the years, though not to the point of toothlessness or rot. "You're guessing."

Harry shook his head, his eyes and voice both filled with certainty now. "I'm not – I know it was you."

Grindelwald was silent for a moment, still grinning. "Well, you're right of course – though I know you didn't know that before I confirmed it. But you've come all this way. It's a long way from Godric's Hollow, Mr. Potter."

"How do you know we've come from Godric's Hollow?" Harry asked, curious. Grindelwald had been locked in a cell the better part of the century, how could he know?

"Aunt Bathilda will have sent you, I'm sure – on Albus's orders, no doubt." He looked at Harry and Hermione, whose eyes were large at the mention of 'aunt' Bathilda. Grindelwald's eyes settled on Hermione for a moment. "And who is this, Mr. Potter? And at that – I was told you would have two companions. Where is the other?"

"Dumbledore really was thorough, then," Hermione said more to herself than to Harry or Grindelwald. "My name is Hermione Granger, sir. And I, of course, know you."

He smiled warmly, but there was something behind that smile Harry couldn't place. "And where is the other?"

"He isn't traveling with us anymore," Harry said. "He abandoned us a few weeks ago."

Grindelwald wasn't smiling anymore. "Albus had said there would be three. He is not often wrong – how odd that he would be now." Grindelwald paused for a moment, and Harry took in the sight of him. He was chained to the wall opposite the wrought-iron door, his legs and arms both bound, and an unusual metal brace around his neck.

"If you are here, shall I assume Albus has died?"

Harry nodded, and it was odd to have to confirm to someone the death of the most important wizard of the twentieth century. Everyone in Britain had known, but he supposed news did not travel well to Grindelwald, here in his cell, two countries and half a thousand miles away.

Grindelwald looked very troubled for a moment, as if he were fighting off an emotion he did not want to express. Instead, he spoke,

"He visited me once, you know, a couple of years ago – two years ago. He hadn't been here since our little duel. He came and we spoke for about an hour – mostly about you, Mr. Potter." Something like pain was in his voice, but with his accent it was hard to be sure. "He told me that, if you and two others should ever seek me out, it would mean that he had died, and that you had come on his instructions, and that I should tell you... 'of our childhood dreams,' he said.

"Albus Dumbledore and I had a... complicated relationship," he said to Harry and Hermione's looks of mutual confusion. He anticipated the question they would ask – why would Dumbledore visit the Dark Wizard he had defeated more than a half century before. "He and I were best friends once – a very, very long time ago. He and I were... so alike then." Grindelwald was again far away. "I had been expelled from Durmstrang, and I chose to visit Bathilda Bagshot – my great aunt. She was Albus Dumbledore's neighbor, and it was through her that I met him.

"He was the most extraordinary person I'd ever met – the only one I'd ever met who felt like my equal. I was enthralled with him. I had a dream, you see, and I'd come to Godric's Hollow in pursuit of that dream. When I shared it with Albus, he was equally... enthusiastic."

Grindelwald stopped speaking for a moment. Harry supposed he had never much thought of it, but looking on the man, he realized he was indeed a man, and he knew it was true, what he said of being close friends with Dumbledore. There was something so alike in the two of them, something Harry couldn't place, but of which he was absolutely certain.

"We formed a bond, the two of us, and we were inseparable for a few months. We dreamed of finding and uniting artifacts known as the Deathly Hallows. Do you know of them?"

Harry and Hermione both nodded. "Before he died – _just_ before he died – Dumbledore told me very briefly about them. And in his will, he left Hermione his copy of _Beedle the Bard_."

"Good." There was a smile on his lips. "Dumbledore had told me he did not intend to inform you of the Deathly Hallows until he was very sure of... something. He wouldn't explain what. But he said there was something he must be sure of before he was to distract you with talk of Deathly Hallows. I'm glad he was able to confirm whatever it was he needed to; I fear you shall need the Hallows more than I ever did."

"He told me he suspected that I have one. This cloak." Harry lifted his father's invisibility cloak up, showing it to Grindelwald. "Dumbledore thought this might have been Ignotus Peverell's Cloak of Invisibility."

Grindelwald looked entranced. "I... I never expected to see another Hallow for the rest of my life. After Dumbledore left..."

"Do you know where another Hallow would be, sir?" Harry asked quickly, interrupting the old man's thoughts. "I think you're right, Dumbledore thought you were right – I'll need the Hallows if I'm going to defeat the Dark Lord. I have the cloak, but not the Resurrection Stone, or the Elder Wand. What do you know about them?"

Grindelwald's eyes went wide. "He took it from me." There was something else in his voice Harry couldn't place, something caught, perhaps, between anger and sadness. "I stole it from Gregorovitch, years and years ago. But when he defeated me, _he_ became it's master... I cannot believe he did not leave it to you. He knew how important it was, but to leave it unattended? That is the height of irresponsibility." There was something like envy in Grindelwald's voice, angry envy, and it was rising. "He took it from me! All those years ago he took it from me, and he's taken it to his grave!"

"Dumbledore – Dumbledore had the Elder Wand?" Harry was incredulous. Dumbledore had possessed the Elder Wand! He was probably with it in his tomb, even now, and it was just waiting... waiting for Harry to come and find it. If he had the Elder Wand, all he would need is the Resurrection Stone, and he would have all three Hallows, and he would only have to focus on Horcruxes, and then he would be able to defeat Voldemort.

"Yes, he had it. He took it from me – it was mine. But when he defeated me, it was his." Realization must have dawned on Grindelwald, because he suddenly began to speak very quickly. "Potter – Potter, how did Dumbledore die?"

Harry was bewildered. "The Potions Professor at Hogwarts – Snape – he killed him atop the Astronomy Tower after Draco Malfoy – one of the Death Eater's children – a student – disarmed him."

"This Snape killed him, but Dumbledore was already disarmed?"

"Yes – he was weakened, we'd just returned from –"

"No, no, it doesn't matter – if someone disarmed him, that person is the master of the Elder Wand, and it's theirs. Dumbledore didn't die the master of the Elder Wand – that means that someone in the world still is." Grindelwald looked up at Harry and spoke with madness in his eyes. "Do you know where the boy is who disarmed Dumbledore? Do you know where he is?"

"I... I killed him. He attacked us at Godric's Hollow, along with some other Death Eaters, and I killed him. He turned his wand on Hermione, and he was going to kill her, and so I... I cast the killing curse. I murdered him."

Grindelwald's eyes were positively bulging now. "You must leave – you must return to Britain immediately. Wherever Albus is buried, they'll have buried his wand with him – the Elder Wand. If you killed the boy who disarmed Albus, you are the wand's master – its power would become your power. You _must_ leave, before Voldemort comes and –"

Something happened then, something more horrifying than he had perhaps ever seen. There was a crack like lightning, shouting was coming from beneath them. Grindelwald looked terrified.

"The name – taboo?" Grindelwald was shouting, almost screaming. "He is here!" His eyes were rolling with fear, and Harry and Hermione took a step back from him.

"Potter!" Grindelwald sounded so desperate, more desperate than Harry had ever heard anyone sound. "Potter – he will take the secret from me, if he gets a chance. You have to – you have to –"

And somehow, Harry knew what he had to do. "He'd get past any memory charm, wouldn't he, Grindelwald?" The mad man nodded ferociously. "Then it has to be... it has to be, doesn't it?"

"It has to be you," Grindelwald said wildly. "I can see it – I can see your soul. It's already splintering. You're already damaged – you killed the boy – you must also kill _me_.

"_Please._"

He looked so frightened, Harry was almost frozen. The man in front of him, the man who had been Dumbledore's boyhood friend, the man who had killed so many people and preached such evil things – he was terrified of the monster raging below, and he was begging to die. He was begging Harry to kill him.

But his plea wasn't selfish. It wasn't fear of pain, or of death at Voldemort's hand. Grindelwald knew himself – knew that if he were allowed to live, and Voldemort were to reach them, that Voldemort would extract from him the information he had just given Harry and Hermione. He knew he was too weak to withstand him, and he feared for them. And he begged Harry kill him, before Voldemort could get ahold of him.

Harry was whiter than he'd been after Godric's Hollow. Tears were beginning to form in his eyes, angry tears. "I..." his voice trailed off, and he grimaced as he took a pained breath. "Okay."

Grindelwald nodded, scowling against his impending death, bowed his head, and closed his eyes. The sounds from below were getting closer, and Harry knew his time was running short. He had to do this so they could escape before they were found here.

"Harry..." Hermione said softly, and she reached out and grabbed the hand that wasn't holding his wand. "It's okay..."

Harry nodded, and the angry tears had begun to fall.

"_Please kill me_," Grindelwald begged one last time.

And Harry was ready.

He raised his wand and pointed it at the defeated man in front of him. His heart was heavy, but his head was clear. He summoned what hate he could and closed his eyes. And he roared, "_Avada Kedavra!_"

The green light rushed at Grindelwald, and the man, Dumbledore's best friend, was dead in the top-most cell of the prison he'd built sixty years before to hold those who opposed him.

There was a burst of energy, and the air shimmered all around them.

Harry was openly weeping now, weeping angry, hateful tears. Two people in three days...

"Harry..." Hermione's voice was very soft, and reluctance permeated it. "Harry, we've got to go. The wards – the anti-apparition enchantments – I think they've... they've fallen. They were keyed to... to him, Harry, and when he died, they fell... We... we can disapparate, we can escape."

Harry's face was blanketed in despair, but at Hermione's urging he nodded. "Okay. Okay, disapparate – I'll be right behind you."

Hermione shook her head, and moved to stand in front of him. She grabbed his hands in hers, and she pulled herself close to him. "I won't leave without you. We're going together."

"_Leave_," Harry said, his voice breaking, sobs threatening to overtake him. "You've gotta go... Please, just – just leave... _Please_ leave me..."

"I know what you're going to do if I leave without you, Harry. I know what you're going to try to do. And it won't work, Harry, it just won't. You can't attack him yet. Not yet." She smiled, but her own tears were beginning to fall with his. "We've got to leave together... I can't keep going if you don't go with me... We're in this together now, Harry... and I... I'm not going anywhere, not without you."

She pulled herself closer to him, and she tilted up her head. "We need to leave. We will attack, but not today. Okay?"

He nodded violently, tears still falling, and he made a strangled sound like a wounded animal, and Hermione tilted her head up further, and her lips touched his, and their lips locked and broke apart and locked again. She squeezed his hands.

And just as the explosions of the Death Eaters and Voldemort reached the top level, Hermione, her lips attached to Harry's, and her hands as well, disapparated them both away, far away – away from the man Harry had been begged to kill, away from Dumbledore's last and fallen friend, away from Voldemort, who stood shrieking in rage at the sight of Grindelwald's body, who shrieked in rage at Harry and Hermione's escape, away from everything and everyone, and they had anyone else in the world but each other.

**X**

_**A/N: So! They kiss! Not the most romantic place there ever was for a first kiss, but theirs is a relationship forged in desperation and loneliness; what more suitable time than the height of desperation? This isn't a fairy tale.**_

_** F**__**orgive my German – I used Google for the translation, and that can always go one way or the other. If I have any German readers – is my German alright? If not, let me know – I'll fix it and credit you. Also, chapter eight will be up soon, though I think it will take a little longer than the last few have; give me a week. And, as usual, preview-for-reviews rules apply - anyone who has reviewed all previous chapters will receive, via PM, the next, unposted chapter in its entirety.**_

_** PhoenixAeternum**_

_** December 16, 2010**_


	8. Attack! Attack!

_An Author's Note:_

_ So this chapter should be getting posted on December 18, 2010, if things follow according to plan. As it happens, that is my birthday. If you are reading this, I am now twenty years old, and I've chosen this chapter to be posted on my birthday as a little... gift to myself. It is my favorite of the chapters I have written thus far, and I think, or at the least guess, you will soon be in a position to say the same._

_My best,_

_ PhoenixAeternum_

_ 10 December 2010_

**Rebellion  
****Attack! Attack!**

They appeared together in the tent, and as soon as they did, Harry collapsed to the floor and to his knees. His palms smacked to the ground, his wand rolling away as they did, and his arms shook under the weight of holding himself up. Tears were flowing freely now, but the strangled sounds of sobbing still left his lips.

He had killed him. He had killed Dumbledore's best friend. He had killed again, and he was nothing better than a murderer now. He could feel it in his soul. That curse had torn into him, and it had been terrible enough the once; but twice now, twice a killer, twice a user of that evil curse... It made him less than human. He was a murderer now.

He dreaded the dreams that would come.

Hermione dropped herself beside him on the floor, and she threw her arms around him and pulled his head to her chest. She rocked him back and forth as he sobbed, and he held onto her with all the force he could, like a man drowning at sea clutching a life preserver.

He cried for longer than he could know. It might have been hours and hours. But Hermione stuck with him, clutching to him and patting his back or stroking his hair or just _holding on_, the entire time. She didn't let go, not once, not for a moment; she just rocked back and forth, and whispered nice things he would never remember into his ear, and held him like an infant in her arms.

He had killed again – he had killed another one. He was becoming just like them, _just like them_, no better and maybe even worse. He had killed two people. Two people, one a fellow student of Hogwarts – just a boy, no older than he was himself. The other, Dumbledore's once best friend, a man who might have saved them all by telling them that Dumbledore had possessed the Elder Wand. A man who had begged for his own death, to save them. Everything to save them. The number of people who had died to save him... the bodies grew more and more every day.

After an unknown amount of time, he pulled back from Hermione.

"I am so..." he swallowed and tried to steady himself. "Hermione, I am so sorry..."

She pulled him back to her again, her brow furrowed, "Hush, hush, Harry, hush; it's all okay. It's all okay, Harry, I promise. Everything's fine, we're all right – you saved us, Harry, you saved us. You did what you had to do – you saved us. It's all okay. It's all okay, Harry, it's what he wanted – it's what he wanted, Harry, shh... It's all okay. We're going to get through this, we're going to be fine. I promise, Harry, I promise – everything will be fine."

She kissed the top of his head, and held him ever more tightly. "Harry, Harry, please, I am so sorry," she kissed the top of his head again, "but we've got to go to Hogwarts. We have to open Dumbledore's grave and take the Elder Wand before Volde – before You-Know-Who does. I swear, Harry, I promise, after that, we can come back here, and I'll take care of you – I _promise_, but we've got to get to Hogwarts before _he_ does."

Harry took a deep, wavering breath, and he swallowed hard. "I understand, I – I know. Let's go, let's go now, as soon as we can."

"I can go alone, if you need me to, Harry. You can stay here, and I can do it. It's fine – I don't mind, it's fine, I can do that."

He shook his head fiercely. "I owe it to him." He swallowed again. "I owe it to Dumbledore to be the one to do it. If someone's got to break open his grave... I think he would want it to be me."

"But you could stay here and rest, you could sleep."

"I – I wouldn't be able to. I'd be worried about you the whole time. Hogwarts is like a fortress now. There'll be Death Eaters everywhere."

Hermione nodded and kissed the top of his head once more, "It's going to be alright; but let's get going." She stood, cracked her neck, and offered both hands to Harry who was still half-kneeling on the ground.

Harry took her hands and rose shakily. He had trouble getting ahold of himself. Something was changing inside of him, and it scared him. Things were changing – he was changing. And it hurt. Oh god, it _hurt_. He'd killed people now. For the first time of all time, he thanked the heavens that Hermione was the only one who would see him like this; even if Ron were around, he thought, that would be too many people. He wouldn't have been able to look him in the eye.

He could hardly look _Hermione_ in the eye. And she was... well, she was everything he had now, wasn't she?

**XXX-XX-XXXX**

They apparated on the stretch of road that connected Hogsmeade and Hogwarts, the road the thestral-drawn carriages took when bringing returning students to the castle. Harry and Hermione were firmly hidden and disillusioned beneath the invisibility cloak. There had to be guards along the path – Harry was quite sure of it.

Hogwarts was probably the single most prized jewel in Voldemort's crown of overtaken institutions – more so even than the Ministry, which really only served as a puppet center of power anyway. Hogwarts was what Voldemort cared about – and it always had been, even before, all those years ago, he had come to ask Dumbledore for a job; ever since his first year, and his fear he would have to return to the orphanage – ever since that first day, Hogwarts had been what was truly important.

Now it functioned as a factory for future Death Eaters. Every student that came through would be a target for joining Voldemort's Army. And it occurred to Harry then, and he didn't know how it had taken so long, that what Voldemort truly wanted – had truly wanted, since the day in the orphanage when Dumbledore had come to tell Tom Riddle of Hogwarts – was to _be_ Dumbledore. He wanted to a professor at Hogwarts, to train up young minds and shape them in his image; and was that truly different than what Dumbledore sought to do himself?

Dumbledore, who had always been cleverest, who, since his time as Grindelwald's closest friend and the death of his sister, been exemplar of the light – Dumbledore who embodied all that was good and right and just: Dumbledore wanted his ideals for the students of Hogwarts.

And Voldemort's desires were little more than a perversion of that; no doubt he one day wanted to sit where Dumbledore had sat, where Snape now did, in the Headmaster's chair at the head table in the Great Hall, welcoming those young minds into his midst to instruct them in his ways.

Harry and Hermione grew closer now, close enough to the gates of Hogwarts to see the castle looming behind them. They would be heavily fortified, but Dumbledore had left them a secret – the secret of how to penetrate the castle. Harry was sure – or as near to as he could be – that Snape would be too arrogant to bother changing Hogwarts' security protocols to anything customized; he was near certain they would be the same as they had been the night Dumbledore had died: Complex, but as simple to dispel in Harry's case (with the help of Dumbledore's spell-book) as if Snape had given them a key.

When they were close enough for Harry to wave his wand and use the charm Dumbledore had left them, he discovered, to greatest satisfaction, he was correct in every way. The wards and enchantments Dumbledore had erected were three-fold: a blood-registry charm keyed to each of the students of Hogwarts – which, luckily, still recognized Harry and Hermione and would not have to be dispelled.

Next was an enchantment that would stop any living or magical thing from passing through the barrier; this was undone very simply: With a flick of his wand, Harry undid the enchantment with these words: "_Ichnos apparet_."

Finally was a ward which would detect the allegiance of every person who passed through it – an enchantment Harry wished Dumbledore had placed on the castle _before_ Draco Malfoy had passed through it at the beginning of the previous school year. He had almost finished thinking of that before dread began its assault again – _You killed him._ And so he did.

With a wave of his wand, the enchantment made the air sizzle like an egg falling to a hot pan, and Harry and Hermione were free to enter. _Good thing for that book_, Harry thought for neither the first nor last time.

Still under the cover of the invisibility cloak – and obscured by disillusionment charms beneath that – Harry added a further redundancy, one that, though a fourth year spell, Dumbledore had included in his book: A Notice-Me-Not Charm. "_Ignotisumus_," he breathed, and anything that might have been looking in their direction would suddenly feel the urge to go look some other direction entirely. Dumbledore was a clever man – and one with a sense of humor at that.

It was a quiet march that took Harry and Hermione across the grounds to the lake and Dumbledore's white-marble tomb; they held hands and neither said anything to the other. Neither had to.

_ She... kissed me._ It had only then dawned on Harry. Perhaps he'd been too caught up in his own grief, or perhaps he hadn't even known at the time. But... _She kissed me. As we were leaving. She kissed me._ He didn't know what he felt. He didn't know what that sensation in his stomach was – if it was guilt or pleasure or excitement or none of those things. Ginny...

_I am a murderer... and a traitor. I... betrayed her. I let – __**I**__ let Hermione kiss me, and I enjoyed it. I kissed her back. She would never – never – forgive me. She shouldn't... I don't know if I could forgive her, if roles were reversed_. He glanced at Hermione, invisible at his side but knowing her location by the warmth of her fingertips. _I need her._

Dumbledore's tomb stood pearly in the white glow of the moon – it was full. Somewhere, Remus Lupin was in agony as a wolf overtook and became him.

Harry raised his wand, and he pointed it at Dumbledore's tomb. He couldn't believe he was about to do this... Violate Dumbledore's grave, disturb his body, and steal his wand – like a grave-robber in the dead of night._ Another name to add to murderer and traitor_, he supposed, and he almost laughed in misery. What had he become?

He attempted _Wingardium Leviosa_, but the levitation charm was unsuccessful. He grinned grimly. He couldn't believe what he was about to do, but knew that he had to. _Wherever you are, Dumbledore... _He saved his apology; by any luck, he could give it in person soon.

He raised his wand above his head, straight up the in the air, and swung it down at Dumbledore's pearly tomb, and it split down the middle. He raised his wand again, and slashed it at one side of the tomb, and walked around and slashed it at the other. He pulled the cloak off himself and heaved a heavy slab of white stone off the tomb and threw it to the earth.

Laying there beneath the stone was Albus Dumbledore, the greatest wizard who ever lived. He lay perfectly still – as, Harry supposed, the dead ought to. Just as he so often had held them in life, his fingers were steepled atop his chest; beneath his fingers and on his chest rested the thing they sought: the Elder Wand.

Harry reached into the tomb and, apologizing as he did, extracted the Elder Wand. The wand seemed to vibrate in Harry's hand, or shiver, and as it did it began to glow – at first very softly, but then it was scalding Harry's hand but he couldn't let it go.

And then he was screaming in searing pain, in infinite pain – pain beyond the Cruciatus Curse, pain beyond a basilisk's fang, pain beyond pain. But as quickly as it had begun, it ceased.

He looked to his side, breathing heavily, and Hermione was looking at him in horror. Her disillusionment charm had been dispelled, and he could see her very clearly. Her face was paler than the moon that shone overhead.

"Harry," she breathed, and he realized it was not him she was looking at in horror. She was looking behind him. Harry turned on the spot. Rushing toward them, wand raised, was Severus Snape.

Harry had fired off his first spell before Snape could so much as utter an incantation. With a jab of his wand, a column of air rushed at Snape, and the man was barely able to keep his footing.

"Run!" Harry shouted at Hermione. "It'll be easier for us both to escape if we do it separately – take the cloak. Get to the gates and disapparate!"

Hermione looked furious, but before she could speak, Harry fired the same spell at Snape again. "GO!" he ordered. "I'll duel Snape, and you _run!_"

Again, the column of air – Snape had attempted to throw up a shield, but it had proven useless against Harry's onslaught of jet after jet of simple wind. There wasn't a counter-spell Snape knew, and wind couldn't be blocked with a shield charm.

"Get _out_ of here, Hermione! I will be _fine_!" He smiled a deathly smile. "You have no idea how powerful this wand is!" Harry shot another column of air at Snape, who now was trying to conjure physical objects to block the wind, but his efforts were fruitless – everything he conjured either blew away or back onto him.

"_Run_, Hermione! Take the cloak and _run_! I will be _fine_!"

Hermione's face a mask of fury, she looked ready to curse him, but she finally relented and did as he said. She grabbed the cloak from where Harry had left it fallen on the ground, turned, and ran for the gates, throwing the cloak over herself as she went.

Harry turned his attention to the once again advancing Snape, who had raised his wand over his head to fire off another curse, but Harry had erected a Shield Charm – stronger than any he'd ever cast – and Snape's blazing red curse fizzled on impact.

Harry flicked his wand at Snape and, pouring his efforts into it, shouted "_Incendio_!"

A roar of flames erupted from the tip of the Elder Wand and rushed at Snape, raised a Shield Charm to protect himself, but it was too little too late – the flames engulfed the shield and the man began to burn as the flames continued to swirl.

Snape, however, was resourceful and cast a foamy substance over his body and the flames seemed to surround, but not touch, the new Headmaster of Hogwarts. But he was more resourceful still – while Harry marveled at the Elder Wand's power, Snape sent a thick jet of water at him – and the jet passed through the flames, and Harry was hit full-on with water that now was boiling.

He screamed in pain, but roared at the man ensconced in flames, "_Diffindo_!" The simple cutting curse connected with Snape and cut his chest deep, tearing open the torso of his robes and leaving a wide gash that quickly began to cover the man in his own blood.

"_Avada Kedavra_!" another voice shouted, a voice of higher pitch, and a jet of green light rushed at him.

Harry dove left to avoid the killing curse, and looked on his attacker. Alecto Carrow had joined the fray – and with two of them now to duel, Harry cursed under his breath and scrambled on hands and knees to take cover behind Dumbledore's tomb. Not for the first time that night, he silently apologized to his mentor for what would happen to his final resting place.

"I saw the fire," Alecto shouted to Snape who had extracted himself from the flames at last and was now advancing toward the tomb, Alecto twenty feet to his left.

"Call the Dark Lord!" Snape shouted to her, his wand trained on Dumbledore's tomb.

But before Alecto was able to, Harry jumped straight up from where he had crouched behind the tomb and fired the last curse Alecto Carrow would ever know: "_Avada Kedavra_!"

The words roared with the winds, and Alecto, just a dozen or so feet now from Harry, was too slow to react; the spell connected with her chest and she fell to the ground dead.

Snape fired another red curse at Harry, but he erected a shield to stop it, and Snape spell sizzled against it and failed once more.

"You killed him – you killed Dumbledore!" Harry roared as Snape cast another spell – this one blue – that fizzled against Harry's shield charm. "You _murdered_ him!"

"Are we so different now, Potter?" Snape spat at the boy, erecting his own shield as Harry fired a stunner at him. "Are we so different now that you've killed three people? First your classmate – then Grindelwald – and now a Death Eater! Are we so different now, Potter?"

Harry roared without a word and fired another stunner at the current Headmaster of Hogwarts, but it fizzled against Snape's shield as surely as Snape's spells had fizzled against Harry's.

A crowd of wand-lit students and teachers had flooded the castle grounds – Harry couldn't make out any individual people, but they were growing closer, all of them.

"_Sectumsempra_!" Snape shouted at Harry, and Harry had to duck back below Dumbledore's tomb to avoid it.

But Harry rose again, and his wand pointed directly at Snape, he cast a full-body bind that Snape could not avoid, and the Headmaster of Hogwarts fell to the ground as Hogwarts students came closer and closer – close enough now that he was sure it was Neville Longbottom he saw at the front of the pack.

Harry came around the tomb and stopped at where Snape lay unable to move.

Harry looked down at him, and his eyes were full of hate and agony – his rage was overtaking him, and he was disgusted by the creature laying on the ground, and he hated him for his weakness and his evil. He screamed every word:

"You live!" He spat the words at Snape like the foulest thing. "You live – and you _tell_ him what I have become! You _tell _him what I've done here! You _tell_ him: _I_ killed Draco Malfoy – and _I_ killed Gellert Grindelwald – and you tell him _I _killed Alecto Carrow! You tell him their bodies rot – and they rot because of _**me**_!

"You tell him I could have killed you – but I spared you, you tell him you should have died – but that Harry Potter is merciful, and that _Harry Potter_ spared your _life_. You tell him I killed them all, but I spared _you_ – and you see if he doesn't kill you himself!

"You tell him – you tell him, Snape: _I am coming for him_. I am coming for _him_ – and I will kill him! You tell him he will die – and by _this_ wand! Dumbledore's wand, the wand that has defeated him a dozen times! You tell him – you tell him Harry Potter says Tom Riddle will _die_ for what he's done!"

Harry looked back at Snape, that same rage in his eyes, that same torment, that same murderous agony. "Before this is over, you _will_ die, Snape – and I hope he saves you for me! I hope _I_ get to be the one who kills you like you killed him!" Harry saw, on a finger on Snape's left hand, a familiar gold ring with a black stone cracked down its center.

"_His ring!_" Harry roared. "Then I'm not the only grave-robber here!" Harry reached down to Snape's hand, and he pulled up his arm, and he balled all his fingers into a fist but the one that bore that cursed ring, keeping that finger extended. And with a slash of his wand at the finger, it came apart from Snape's hand and fell to the ground. And Snape reeled in silent agony, unable even to scream or thrash against the pain.

Harry bent down and picked up the finger, slipped the ring off of it, and threw Snape's finger at his face. With one final act, Harry raised his foot and slammed it down on Snape's face and slipped the Gaunt ring on a finger on his left hand.

The crowd that formed a semi-circle around them against the lake was silent. No one spoke – no one moved, and no one made a sound. No one could do anything but stare on at the sight before them.

"You _all_ tell him!" Harry roared at them all, waving his wand above him. "Tell Lord Voldemort Harry Potter was here! Tell him I am alive, and that I will watch him _die_!"

**X**

_** A/N: Ah.**_

_** Please review.**_

_** PhoenixAeternum**_

_** December 18, 2010**_


	9. Retreat! Retreat!

_An Author's Note:_

_ I hope you enjoyed last chapter – I know I did. Immensely. This chapter is something of a personal milestone for me; in the last five years, the longest stories I ever wrote were "Fate's Debt and the Philosopher's Stone" and "Pornography." The former, written and abandoned by January of '06, reached a total of twenty five chapters before I set it aside; the latter, written in the summer, fall, and winter of '06, ended with eight chapters. _

_ As this marks the ninth chapter of __"Rebellion," it also marks my longest story in five years. It's taken a long time for me to come to a story capable of this sort of length (and I know, nine chapters doesn't seem like much, but I truly struggled with a dozen others stories to get them to this point, and every time but this time I have failed), and I'm very proud of it now. As I said, a personal milestone._

_ But anyway, enough from me. This chapter's title is taken after a song by a band called 65daysofstatic. Kudos to any one of you who might know them_

_ PhoenixAeternum_

_ December 10, 2010_

**Rebellion**

**Retreat! Retreat!**

At that moment, a roaring came from behind the crowd, a death knell to indicate coming violence: Amycus Carrow was storming the scene, having perhaps been delayed inside the castle previously, unable to join his sister in dying.

There was a sound like a shot, and a group of students went flying, thrown from where they'd stood and into the air ten feet or so; and there was another shot, and it happened again, and then Amycus Carrow was at the front of the crowd, and he saw Harry Potter standing over the bodies of his sister and his Headmaster.

"_Avada Kedavra_!" were the first words off Amycus' lips, but Harry flicked his wand at a slab of marble which flew before him and blocked the killing curse, the marble crumbling to dust onto the grass. Another green curse was sent Harry's way, and he blocked it with another slab of white marble and jabbed his wand viciously at Amycus, and his stunner seemed to travel far more quickly than usual, and Amycus Carrow was hit by the spell before the thought of a shield charm could even enter his head.

Amycus lay splayed out on the ground unconscious, and Harry came over to his body, quickly cast a full-body bind, and stomped on his face as he had done Snape's. The blood flowed freely from his nose and mouth, sinking into the earth beneath his head.

With a scowl and another flash of rage, he thrust his wand skyward and a lightning bolt erupted from it and pierced the heavens with a clap of thunder.

He pointed his wand at himself and cast the disillusionment charm, and he was utterly invisible by the strength of the Elder Wand. Voldemort would be coming soon, he knew – he'd triggered the taboo just a few minutes before – and as long as Voldemort still had Horcruxes, the time to confront him was not yet at hand.

He turned toward the Hogwarts gates and began his march alone, as behind him students sympathetic to Voldemort flooded the place where Alecto, Amycus, and Severus Snape lay dead or defeated.

It seemed to take almost no time at all before he was once again at the gates of Hogwarts – he and Hermione's trek across the grounds must have taken at least twice as long. But as soon as he was off the grounds of Hogwarts and onto the stretch of road connecting Hogwarts and Hogsmeade, he disapparated with a crack.

**XXX-XX-XXXX**

Hermione Granger was furious.

She was furious Harry had demanded she leave, and more furious still that, though she at first resisted, she ultimately had complied. What in the _hell_ was she thinking? Or he, for that matter? Hogwarts is an incredibly dangerous place to stage an assault, and they both knew it! But he insisted she leave, and for _some _reason, she'd agreed to it!

She sat fuming in the tent, every moment wondering whether she ought to go back. But the last time she'd done that, it turned Harry into a killer, and had almost gotten her killed as well. She never should have left! But now that she had, she couldn't go back. Hogwarts was a big place – he could be anywhere inside it, and under a disillusionment charm, she might never have found him.

After a few minutes of this fury, realization dawned on her. _The Marauders' Map!_ Harry still had it sitting beside his bed – he hadn't looked at it in weeks, as far as she knew, but she knew that there were times in the middle of the night, or at least there had been, when he had spent hours watching it, thinking Hermione asleep.

Sure enough, beside Harry's bed was the folded piece of parchment she knew to be the map. Hurriedly, she tapped it with her wand and activated it with the password the marauders had set decades before. "I solemnly swear I am up to no good."

She scanned it rapidly, intent on finding Harry. On a corner of the map, right up against the lake where she had left him, Harry stood before a wall of Hogwarts students a dozen deep. The dot reading "Alecto Carrow" was now an X, and the dot for "Severus Snape" was not moving. Something caught in Hermione's heart. He'd killed again. He'd had to kill again...

She watched as a dot labeled "Amycus Carrow" moved from the entrance of Hogwarts to where the wall of students stood, and she watched as a number of those students were scattered, and then again, and Amycus Carrow's dot wiggled a bit, back and forth, before, after a few moments, it became perfectly still and Harry's began to move toward the gates and exit of Hogwarts.

**XXX-XX-XXXX**

Harry apparated into their campsite with a crack, and only a dozen seconds later, Hermione was barreling out of the tent; and when she stood at the entrance, and she was him dirtied and pockmarked with specks of blood, but for the most part whole, she burst toward him and tackled him in a hug that knocked to the ground.

He smiled weakly, but didn't pick himself up from the ground. Everything that had happened left him more drained and exhausted now than he could remember being – worse than the aftermath of Godric's Hollow. Hermione stay laying on top of him, her arms around him, and she must have sensed his unwillingness to get up, because she made no motion to either.

_I killed again_, he thought grimly. It was getting easier. There was still an emptiness like a pit in his chest, and as best he knew that was the feeling that came from killing – Dumbledore had said once that it tore at the soul, and he supposed that was what this feeling was.

He had killed again, but it wasn't like the times before. Even Grindelwald, who'd asked him to do it – even that had been more difficult. This time, he felt... less. There was a sadness, he supposed, deep in his heart, and the expression he wore on his face was grim. But it wasn't like before. It was... it was getting easier.

He shivered at the thought, and that was Hermione's cue to get up. She disentangled herself from him, stood, and offered him her hands. He took them, pulling himself up off the ground, and he stumbled toward the tent entrance. He needed to lay down – he needed to sleep.

But he had no sooner reached his bed and flopped down onto it than Hermione sat down on it with him and started demanding explanations.

"What happened?"

He sighed and got into it, telling her what had happened and how. She mostly was dumbstruck and impassive, except for the occasional half-gasp, but there came a point when her silence ended. "And I... I lost control. I was shouting, and... screaming at them. And..." He took a deep breath.

He'd become savage. Something wild and untamed, something dangerous and deadly and something less than human. They'd attacked, and he was drunk with glory at the power of the Elder Wand, and he felt like he was invincible, and he acted it too. He'd lost control completely. He'd become savage.

"Listen, Hermione, I'm... I'm really sorry, I need to sleep."

He realized he'd stopped speaking in the middle of explaining things, but he knew that he couldn't tell her another word. Not right now, not like this.

"Everything's just happened so quickly – Nurmengard and Grindelwald and now this, and... I'm sorry, Hermione, I just need to sleep."

She nodded, and he knew she really did understand. It's not as if the last twenty-four hours had been exactly easy on her either. Hermione got up off Harry's bed and stepped two feet to her own, and lay on her side facing him.

Harry pulled the covers over himself, rolled to face her, and cast his face down in shame. He couldn't look her in the eye, not now, but he couldn't... he couldn't turn away from her. She was all he had, and she deserved better than his turned back.

Harry closed his eyes and whispered a soft good night to Hermione.

His scar was burning softly, and he knew that, somewhere, Lord Voldemort was revenging upon Severus Snape.

**XXX-XX-XXXX**

Hermione lay in her bed, half-asleep – something had woken her, but in the quiet of the night and the haze of half-sleep, she was oblivious to what. But as she lay there silently in her bed, moving not even an inch, and her patience paid off. Two feet from here, maybe three, Harry lay in his bed grunting and groaning, and not in any way she sometimes dreamt.

He wasn't thrashing – Ron had once told her long ago that Harry would sometimes sleep very violently when he was dreaming in Voldemort's head, and it comforted her that this wasn't that. But he trembled. She looked at his face, trying to make it out in the dark of the tent; she grabbed her wand, muttered "_Lumos_," and directed it toward Harry's face. It was, she could see, contorted in anguish, and the trails of tears had left wet streaks all over his reddened face.

"No..." he mumbled in his sleep, twitching. "No..."

Hermione, as quiet as she could, extracted herself from her bedsheets and swung her legs to the side of the bed, crossing over to Harry and crouching down at the side of his bed.

"_Killer._..." Tears were streaming now, but the pained expression seemed to recede from his face – the tears that now fell were emotionless, and there was something in his impassive anguish that was far more disturbing. The struggle against torment had fallen away, and all there was now was the acceptance of anguish, acceptance that his pain was an enduring one, going nowhere, perhaps ever again.

Some things never died – were never meant to and never would. And it was with enormous sadness and greater regret that what he now struggled with inside himself may be something of that very nature. Something that would always haunt him. And, she supposed, there could be no likelier candidate for such a thing than being forced by circumstance to kill three people. And it was with further sadness that she reminded herself that it was _only_ three people, and _only_ for now – that there would, in all likelihood, be more – far more – than just the three.

They were at war, and he was expected to lead, and in leading, do whatever was necessary to secure the overthrow of Voldemort.

And what struck her most of all, what saddened her more than all this was why Harry truly killed. He wasn't the sort of person who, naturally, had the capacity for killing – she had known that since their first year at Hogwarts. But he did it. He killed people, and in no small part – though she knew he would never, for as long as he lived, admit it – so that she would not have to. She could have killed Grindelwald at Nurmengard, but Grindelwald knew Harry had already used the killing curse, and he identified within Harry the willingness to kill so that others wouldn't have to.

A part of her wondered if that was not why he sent her away that day from Hogwarts. Could it have been that he knew, with her around, he would have no choice but to duel to kill? Yes, he had killed Alecto Carrow – but he spared both Snape and Alecto's brother Amycus. He did not have to; both would be as deserving as Alecto of death, yet he spared them. She thought – she liked to think – that her absence had allowed him to spare them. If she had been there, he wouldn't have afforded himself that luxury; he would have done what was necessary to ensure she was safe – himself be damned. And in this instance, it would have meant not Snape disarmed and put into a body bind; but Snape deceased and put into a wooden box.

She knew she couldn't handle it. She knew that, in his position, she would have cracked – and far worse than he had early that day, after Nurmengard, when they'd return to the camp and he'd wept. She would have been well beyond that; he may have been virtually inconsolable, but she had been able to help, at least a little – and she knew well that, in his position, he could not have helped her. No one could have helped her.

Killing was just the latest of many burdens to be placed on his shoulders. And she knew it must distress him, more perhaps than it would most, that he had to resort to killing; he had always so admired Dumbledore, and Dumbledore was famously nonlethal in his dealings with the darker element. The press had once hailed Harry the new Dumbledore, and that was probably closest to what he wanted for himself.

She sighed heavily. She wished there was something she could do – something more than kneel beside his bed and hold his hand, as she did now. She could wake him, but that would serve no good; he needed to sleep, even if his sleep was marred by nightmares.

But then he was shaking – and it was more violent than his earlier tremblings, more than the tremors of bad dreams. He was shaking like he was having a seizure, and it was violent, and it frightened her; she bolted up to her feet, and she wrapped her hands around Harry's face and tried to wake him.

"Harry, Harry please – you wake up. You're having a nightmare – wake up, Harry." But he wouldn't wake. He was still thrashing, and it was a struggle for her fingers to remain in contact with the sides of his face as she tried desperately to comfort him through this.

"Wake up, Harry, please." Her voice was louder now, and it grew louder still. "Wake up, Harry!"

And he did. His eyes fluttered open, and he sat upright, and the flood of sights immediately after his nightmare seemed to overwhelm him. Tears still fell from his eyes – his mind hadn't caught up to him yet, and he seemed to believe he was still entrapped in whatever desolate dreamland had imprisoned him.

"It's alright, Harry, it's alright – I've got you, it's alright, it's all alright. Just breathe, Harry... Please, just breathe."

He looked at her with his mouth agape and his eyes wild like they couldn't even see her, and he gave a sound like a howl and dropped his face to his hands.

Hermione wrapped her arms around him. It was like cradling a child.

Harry's state represented devolution and the return to innocence – he seemed to retreat from the horrors of his realities to a point where he was just a thing to be cared for. It was something he'd never done before, and the experience he yearned for was one he'd never really known. But Hermione, her arms wrapped around him, provided it. He had done monstrous things. He had, briefly, been himself a monster. But Hermione embraced _him,_ and that spoke more than a thousand words ever could.

**X**

_**A/N: I think this is a pretty good place to stop. Anyone reading this story after next chapter's been published will look back on this chapter as maybe a bit slow – and it is, I suppose. Chapter Eight was a fury of words and action, and Chapter Ten is similar in a lot of ways. But here, I had to explain some things – explain some things, without actually explaining much. Or perhaps I've explained everything? It really depends on how intently you scrutinize this chapter, and what you chose to and to not read into it.**_

_** Well, the rules this time round are the same: If you are someone who has reviewed each of the previous chapters of this story, and you now review this one, you can shortly expect a PM with Chapter Ten enclosed. **_

_** There's a bit in the way of added incentive this time – I'm going to take a little break for the Christmas holidays, and I won't be posting another chapter until the 28**__**th**__** – so: if you would like to read chapter ten before then, you'll just have to go back and review every chapter posted so far, including this one, and I will happily PM it to you.**_

_** Thanks for reading. **_

_** PhoenixAeternum**_

_** December 20, 2010**_


	10. At Night

_An Author's Note:_

_ This chapter is a little more... something. I think you'll find you agree._

_PhoenixAeternum_

_ December 11, 2010_

**Rebellion  
****(At Night)**

Morning came to find Hermione's arms around Harry still, both on their sides and fast asleep in his bed. It had taken awhile, but they both had fallen asleep after a little over an hour of uncontrollable madness.

His eyes recognizing the light outside, Harry woke. There was a peace in him. A peace he would never explain to anyone, not if he could ever help it. He knew what he had to do now. He had made his peace with it, a peace forged in the previous night's madness. He had lost himself, and in losing himself, managed to find his way back, with the help of the woman beside him.

He lay there silently, motionlessly. He needed to think, and he needed to be alone, but without leaving. He didn't want to leave.

He reflected on the events of the previous few days. It had been a roller coaster, that much was for sure.

He thought back to Draco Malfoy... He had been savage against the boy. And he was just a boy – Malfoy had never had to grow up, not like Harry felt he'd had to. And he knew it sounded ridiculous and it sounded presumptuous – like that old line, "I know what it's like to be dead," like no one else knew anything, that only his own experiences were true. But it was what was in his heart; he knew he had been given more than, by rights, he ought to have. And it wasn't that he doubted that there was difficulty in Draco Malfoy's life – but ultimately it came down to someone who chose to commit to the terrible destiny he'd been born into vs someone who chose to follow in his father's footsteps in a venture Harry didn't think Malfoy's heart was truly in. It was the choice between what was right and what was easy, and Harry knew where he stood.

Malfoy had tried to kill Hermione. He'd cast the killing curse at her – or he'd tried to. He'd been the one who cornered and disarmed Dumbledore – Draco Malfoy had as good as killed him. And Harry had been so enraged, seeing Malfoy attempting to kill Hermione. Didn't he know she was all he had now? He'd been forced by circumstance to leave Ginny behind – Ginny, whom he missed more than anything – and he'd been abandoned by Ron. Hermione was all he had in the world now, and Draco Malfoy tried to kill her.

And so Harry had killed him instead. Wasn't that justice? Wasn't that the universe's way? Kill or be killed – kill or watch your friends be killed? Was that not the situation the world presented him now? Ultimately, that was Harry and Voldemort's relationship – one must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives. Harry had to kill Voldemort, or Voldemort would kill Harry, and everyone Harry had ever cared about. What was Draco Malfoy, then? Target practice?

He didn't remember whose spell had struck him before he and Hermione fled. He didn't remember what the spell was, or even how they got away. All he knew is that he woke up a day later in the tent. And his clothes had been changed. He hadn't confronted Hermione about it – he was sure he didn't want to know.

He didn't know when his feelings toward Hermione had begun to change. He wasn't sure when their mutual desolation had changed into... into whatever it was they now shared. And he had no idea how to define what it was they had now. She wasn't his girlfriend, and he wasn't her boyfriend. But their desperation was magnetism. He recalled the kiss at Nurmengard...

She'd just grabbed him, and kissed him right on the mouth. And he didn't remember now if he'd kissed back. He thought he probably did. He knew he wanted to. He knew he'd wanted to kiss her every time he'd seen her since. He craved that. He needed something that amounted to even the least affection. He was starving for its absence. He needed to be reminded that he wasn't alone. He forget it too often.

But what about Hermione? She had initiated everything so far. She had kissed his lips at Nurmengard, and she had been the one who comforted him these last days. When he'd killed Grindelwald, he'd been distraught. And she'd held him, and she'd stroked his hair, and she'd kissed the top of his head, and she'd told him everything would be alright.

But what about her? She hadn't killed anyone, but Ron, whom he knew she loved – was in love with, even – had abandoned them. And Harry could carry on just fine. His attachment to Ron was fraternal, and the pain of losing him was like the pain of losing a brother – it was there, and it might never be gone, but it wasn't what Hermione felt. Hermione hadn't lost a brother. She'd lost the best parts of herself, she'd lost the heart she'd given him and the innocence she'd promised him, if never in words.

She'd lost Ron as Harry had lost Ron; but there was more there. She'd also lost Ron like Harry had lost Ginny. A lover – the only love she'd ever known, as Ginny was the only one he'd ever known – gone, probably forever. They both had given up at this point ever seeing the ones they loved, and Hermione had to deal with worse than he did; Harry believed, knew, even, in his heart of hearts, that if he should survive, that he and Ginny might have a future. But the same was not true of Hermione with Ron. Ron had left; he'd abandoned her, as good as left her to die. If Hermione was to survive this war, it would not be to her redhead to whom she returned. It would be to that emptiness that had filled her since he left; it would be to reconstruct the family she'd broken. It would be to horrible things, things Harry did not envy and which made his heart break for her.

But that sort of speculation was idle; they would both die out here. There could be little question of that. They would be overwhelmed, they would be found, and eventually they would be dead, and they would be buried, if they were buried at all, by bitterest enemies rather than fondest friends.

He owed her more. He owed her so much more. His obligation was more than blood. He owed her the life she ought to have had; he owed her the future of which her association with him had almost certainly robbed her; he owed her the sun, and the moon, and the stars above – every last one that shone in the sky: He owed her everything. She could have left him when Ron did; she could have fled with him, and they could have lived in hiding, and they could have grown old and grey.

But Hermione had said no. She'd had that strength, that loyalty, that love. And he owed her all of that back, and so much more. How easy it would have been to disapparate with Ron into the night and leave Harry behind to fend for himself, to find a way to survive and conquer Voldemort. How easy it would have been to turn away and never look back. But she hadn't. She loved him, and she had stayed. He owed her everything.

She had been such a comfort to him. She had been companion and comrade, through the good times and the bad. Their only true falling out had been at his instigation in their third year; when Ron had turned on him in his fourth year, she was there the whole time. He owed his world to her, and it had taken that world's destruction for him to realize it.

He rolled over onto his other side to face her. He loved her. He knew that. He'd known it for years. But it hadn't been until they were forced into this, until they were isolated and alone, with no one but each other, that things had begun to change. He owed her everything. And that included all the love he could give.

He brushed back a hair that had fallen and obscured a part of her face, and he tucked it behind her ear. He didn't know what this was. But it was something. And maybe it had grown from desperation. But maybe that's what he needed – what they needed. If they were going to die doing this, they deserved whatever happiness they could manage. He didn't know what this relationship was; he didn't know if it was even a relationship. But whatever it was, he loved her. And he didn't love her out of obligation or reciprocation. He loved her because he loved Hermione Jean Granger, who had earned his love and, at every turn, proved herself someone deserving of all the love in the world.

If they managed to survive this, maybe then he would have to give serious consideration of what this meant in the scheme of things. If his love for Ginny preempted his love for Hermione, or if the opposite were true. But absent that expectation, that belief that he might live to see this all one day end, he would not mourn for the love that might have been; he would give her everything he could, because everything he could was already hers. It had just taken him to this point to realize it.

He had always taken for granted how pretty she was. He'd started to notice it, and it had started to appear in his dreams, years ago – as far back as second year, if his memory was right. He used to think she was the nicest girl in Hogwarts, at least to him, and that he was incredibly lucky that he, lowly Harry Potter, could call brilliant Hermione Granger his friend. Within a year or two, Hermione had transitioned from nice and pretty to brilliant and outright _cute_.

He'd always felt she was, at least that far back, but it had been secondary. _Yes,_ he used to think, _she's great, but nothing will ever happen there_. He'd never held a romantic interest in her, even as she got steadily prettier and more attractive; that was just a fact of his life. Fourth year and much of fifth year had been spent in infatuation with Cho Chang, sixth year his heart had belonged to Ginny, and this year that had largely been true as well. But left out here with no one else for company had brought him much closer to Hermione.

It had started with touching. When Ron had left, they brushed against each other more often, stood closer to one another, sometimes would go around holding each other's hand, or with one's head resting on the other's shoulder while they spoke or didn't speak. It had started for a need for contact. And maybe that's where it still stemmed from; a desire for contact, a desire to feel like they weren't alone. But it didn't much matter.

This fate they shared was sealed with a kiss the day before. A desperate, life-affirming kiss that was born of one of the most desperate and desolate moments of Harry's life. A kiss that would portend comforting he didn't deserve, least of all from her. She didn't deserve to comfort a weeping man, a falling, crashing, burning man. She deserved better.

He resolved then to be stronger for her. It was what she deserved, and it was a small part of his debt to her. There would be no more disintegration from him; he would no longer need her to pick up the pieces when he just couldn't carry on. He would reverse it all – he would be there for her.

All this time, he had let her make every first move. Almost always, the one who grabbed the other's hand, the first to go, was Hermione. But he'd put a stop to that now; he'd grab her hand, he'd pull her in for a hug, and he'd be the one who kissed her.

Hermione Granger was the most wonderful person in the world, and she deserved the best he could give, and as long as he was living, he would give all he ever had.

He pulled the sheets that covered them up a few inches; Hermione's shoulders had been exposed. He didn't want her to be cold.

Harry tilted his head nearer to hers and gently, softly, but meaningfully pressed his lips to hers. She deserved the best of him. He draped an arm over her hip and rested his hand across her back, and he scooted himself slightly to be closer to her. And he held her closer, held her like he'd never let her go.

**X**

_** A/N: Thoughts? Oh, and next chapter won't be up til after New Year's Day; I doubt very much that many people are going to spend New Year's Eve or New Year's Day reading fan fiction. So next chapter will be up 01/03/2010. See you then.**_

_** PhoenixAeternum**_

_** December 30, 2010**_


	11. Bedfellows

_An Author's Note:_

_ (P)review rules apply: Those who have reviewed every chapter of this story, including this one, will receive, via PM, Chapter Twelve that same day._

_ PhoenixAeternum_

_ December 12, 2010_

**Rebellion  
****Bedfellows**

Sometime in her sleep, Hermione had turned over; she had fallen asleep facing Harry, who had been on his side facing away from her. But she opened her bleary eyes to find her facing away from Harry, and to a pair of strong arms wrapped around her, and to a warm body pressed up against her.

She gave a sleepy sigh. This was good. This warmth – more than the generation of body heat – was what she had needed for awhile now. Though Ron's departure had certainly accelerated things, her need for some sort of contact had existed in some form or other since the day she had oblivitated her parents. Everything since then, and especially since Ron, had seemed like one defeat after another – every day a little closer to obliteration and nothingness. But this sensation, this closeness she shared now with the sleeping boy beside her, was the most comfort she could remember knowing.

She knew it was starting to get late in the morning now, but she didn't care. She could sleep like this til noon. She could sleep like this til she died. She closed her eyes, nestled herself closer to Harry, and let her dreams take her away.

A few hours later the sun was high in the sky and well reflected by the snow that lay thinly on all things. It was nearly winter now, and Christmas would be here soon.

Harry was first to wake, his bleary eyes opening and closing, trying to adjust to being awake. He'd been dreaming about something, but he couldn't remember what; and it wasn't like the dreams he'd been having. No one was calling him a murderer, no one trying to kill him.

He'd woken up in the middle of the night, and he didn't remember falling asleep again, but he obviously must have. It was then that he realized the position he was in: Hermione was pressed up against him, and his arms were around her, and she was incredibly warm. He pulled the covers up a little higher; his arm, the one wrapped over Hermione, had been exposed to the air most of the night and was incredibly cold.

He lowered that same arm; it had rested over Hermione's upper arm, but he carefully, slowly lowered his arm so that his hand rested on her stomach. In her sleep, her shirt had hiked up some, enough that rather than the t-shirt he had expected to find his hand resting on, he instead made contact with bare skin.

The thought of it jolted him slightly. Was this wrong? Was he taking advantage of her sleeping state? What would she think – would she be horrified and leave just as Ron had? Would she leave him alone in the world, alone to find Horcruxes and Hallows?

He moved his hand from off her stomach, but Hermione made a sound like a sleepy growl, and he decided to throw caution to the winds and return his hand to her soft stomach and the warmth found there.

Harry never quite went back to sleep, but he did spent the next twenty minutes or so in that wonderful haze between dreaming and awakening, that lovely daze where everything is beautiful and nothing hurts.

After that twenty minutes, however, Hermione woke up; and just as it had taken Harry a dozen or two blinks to realize what was going on, so also for Hermione. She must have thought Harry was still asleep, because she attempted to, very delicately, extract herself from his embrace.

"Don't," murmured Harry's quiet, sleepy voice. "Stay."

Hermione froze. It was like she was a little kid again and she'd been caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

"Please," Harry's voice said, softer than before. "Stay."

Her heart was pounding. She had meant to wake before he did, or absent that, at least run away as soon as he woke up with her in his arms. She knew he was in a state of vulnerability; she didn't want to abuse that vulnerability because _she_ was lonely.

"Hermione... Don't go."

She took a breath, and lowered herself back down as she did. When she was back fully in Harry's arms, he tugged on her shoulder very lightly, trying to coax her to face him. She obliged, rolling over to look into his deep green eyes.

He opened his mouth as if to speak, but after a moment of no words coming out, he closed it again and looked up and down her face. She had very faint freckles, and for a moment he looked at her and saw Ginny. But he pushed the image from his mind; the two were not one, and he didn't want them to be. He opened his mouth again to speak, to tell her how much he loved her for staying, for not leaving him here, for carrying on with him, because he knew he didn't have the strength to do this alone. But the words would not come, and he could not think how to force him.

Words abandoned, he leaned his face forward. And it was like in slow motion as he closed his eyes for a moment and his lips connected with hers. And he held them there, and it might have been for an eternity, but time had gone funny and he wouldn't pull back. And then, at the same glacial pace, her lips caught his, and she was kissing him back – slowly, carefully, with not trace of the desperate kiss they'd shared at Nurmengard or the chaste kiss she'd given him three years before at King's Cross.

He pulled her closer to him, and he kissed her as she was kissing him – slowly, almost mournfully. Through this Harry was able to communicate what his words had failed to; through this Harry was able to express his thankfulness and his appreciation, and his love and his happiness, and the intensity and meaningfulness of her staying, and every word he could not say.

"Don't go," he reminded her when their lips parted for a moment, and she kissed him again, more intensely than she had. And just as he had done before, now she was letting her lips speak what her tongue could not; and then her tongue and her lips were speaking what her tongue alone could not, and her hands were in his hair, his were running up and down her back, greedily holding her to him, greedily holding every bit of her he could.

They kissed like that, with ever-rising intensity, for a length of time Harry would never know. But after the intensity had peaked, and they had begun to come down from it all, and their kisses returned to the soft and slow, there came a point when their lips parted from each other's, and they lay their heads on the pillow and looked into each others eyes, one smile mirroring the other.

"I don't know what this is," Harry admitted, casting his eyes downward for a moment.

"Me neither."

"I guess..." he started. "I guess it doesn't matter. What we call this. Whatever this is. You're everything, Hermione." He took a breathe, and looked into her eyes. "You're everything I have."

She leaned forward and kissed him, smiling. It was the most genuine happiness she'd known for longer than she cared to think; she wouldn't ruin it. "You're everything I have too, Harry."

He kissed her back and ran a hand from where her arm and torso met down to her hip, his fingertips absorbing every inch of her.

"You know, I dreamt of this once." Hermione said. "Except we were living in a flat in London, like Muggles, and we did a bit more than kiss." She was blushing slightly, and Harry smiled at it; he didn't know he could make her do that, that the thought of him could have that effect on her.

"We should, you know."

"We should what?" Hermione asked.

"It doesn't make sense for us to stay out here. We're not finding anything; it's not like we're going to set up the tent one day and find a Horcrux while we're charming in the stakes." He paused. "I don't think there's any reason we couldn't get a flat and hide in London, or Edinburgh, or Paris – anywhere, really."

She looked at him with something like mingled hope and fear. "Do you mean that?"

He shrugged. "Yeah, I don't see why not. I don't know that we'd be spending very much time there, but it would beat living out of a tent."

"We couldn't afford it, though."

Harry thought about it for a moment. "I'm not sure, but I think we could. There was a _lot_ of gold in my vault at Gringotts. At least a few thousand galleons, I'd think – probably a lot more. And I don't know anything about interest, but if it's earning any, it's earning a lot. We'd have to break into my vault, probably, but if we did I think we could afford a flat – maybe even real food. We could put up the same enchantments we have up here, plus a few of the ones in Dumbledore's book that require a little more permanent a structure, and... I don't know – what do you think?" he grinned. "Do you want to move in together?"

She jumped on him.

She rolled on top of him, straddling his waist, and kissed him as thoroughly as anyone ever had. His hands were on her hips, and she lowered his torso on top of his and continued kissing him, and he was kissing her back, and it was a mess of limbs and lips. Things carried on like that for a few minutes before Hermione straightened up, still straddling him, and punched him in the arm.

"Ow!" Harry cried. "What was that for?"

"We could have been living in a flat _the whole time_, Harry Potter!"

"Well okay, but give me some warning next time you want to go from snogging to hitting – I don't know how to react!"

Hermione was about to say something but instead stopped and smiled widely. She ground her hips into him. "I can _feel_ that."

After a few minutes, during which time Harry took the opportunity to pick up his jaw from off the floor, Hermione un-straddled him and lay back down on the bed beside him, very close to the edge.

"Promise we can get a bigger bed?"

For a moment, Harry was struck dumb by the implication – this sleeping together business wasn't going to be a one-time thing. And once they had a flat, it was going to be an every night kind of thing. "Yeah, sure, definitely." He didn't know why he was suddenly shivering; just a moment before he'd been snogging her, but now the thought of sharing a bed with her was making him nervous?

Hermione gave him one last lingering kiss, and a smile to go with it, and then swung her legs to the side of the bed and stood up. "I need to, er, _you know_. So why don't you make us some breakfast? Or is it lunch now, do you think?"

Harry groaned. There was one thing more than any other that he missed about "God, I can't wait for indoor plumbing."

He quickly changed his clothes and exited the tent to start a fire when he realized he'd forgotten his wand inside, and inspiration struck him. He raced back inside the tent, jumping over Hermione's bed to get to his. He grabbed the Elder Wand and Slytherin's locket from where they'd lain on the floor, and raced back out of the tent as quickly as he had entered it.

He set the locket down on a log in the snow, breakfast forgotten. He was sure this would work.

"Hermione!" he shouted. "Come here, quick!"

A moment later, Hermione emerged from a section of trees to the right of their campsite. "What is it?" she shouted, still fifteen feet away.

"Just come here!" he shouted back. "Have you got your wand?"

"Yes," she said with some confusion, pulling it from her back pocket (ignoring Mad Eye's warning regarding buttocks). "Why?"

"Just come here."

She stood beside him then, looking down as he did at the locket on the log. "What is it?"

He seemed to shake himself from a trance. "Nothing – just – here, give me your wand for a moment." Hermione still looked confusingly at him, but she did as he asked. Harry took the wand and held it with his right hand, his left still clutching his Elder Wand. "Watch this," he told her, and he pointed Hermione's wand at the locket and in Parseltongue instructed the locket to open, and a cyclone of light and sound erupted from it.

"_Avada Kedavra_!" Harry shouted at the epicenter of the cyclone, and a bolt of sickly green rushed at the locket, hit it, and seemed to dissolve on impact. The locket remained intact, the cyclone as well, and Harry ordered it to close in Parseltongue.

"See!" Harry exclaimed.

"I, er..." Hermione was very confused. "I'm not getting it, Harry. You already tried the killing curse on the locket before Ron left – nothing happened last time either."

"I know, I know – but watch!" And he gave Hermione's wand back to her, and took the Elder Wand with his now free hand. "Open!" he said, though it came out as a hiss, and the cyclone of light and sound appeared again, as strong as before.

The Horcrux seemed to sense its fate, because its imagery was more vivid and horrible than it had ever been. It was as it had been in Harry's dream – one by one, his friends and loved ones and the people he had killed came to him, starting with the first person he'd ever murdered: Draco Malfoy.

_"Dumbledore never killed if he could help it." His arm was bleeding where Harry had blasted off his hand. His eyes were lifeless and flat. "What about you?"_

_ A whirl of smoke and Malfoy was gone, but in his place stood the fallen Sirius Black: "I thought Death Eaters were the ones who killed people."_

_ Hagrid: "Yer a killer, Harry."_

"No!" Hermione shouted into the void. "Harry, destroy the locket!"

_ "You murdered a boy, Harry?" It was his father's voice, and he might never have seen anyone so disappointed and angry at once. "You're not my son – no son of mine would be a dark wizard."_

_ "I can't believe I gave birth to a monster," Lily, his mother, said with such scorn. "A monster and a killer, and –"_

_ "And a freak!" Aunt Petunia spat._

"It's not real, Harry! None of it!"

_ And it was Ginny now: "I never loved you – I could never love a murderer."_

"Don't listen to it, Harry! Use the curse! Destroy it! Do it, Harry!"

_ "This is why I left," Ron said, "so I wouldn't have to see you turn into a murderer – nothing but a killer, no better than a Death Eater."_

_ And the twins behind him threw a sack of galleons at his feet. "We don't want your blood money."_

_ "What a disappointment you've become; I once thought of you like a son – I know better now," Molly Weasley said._

"Harry it's not real!" Hermione shouted, but he was transfixed, he couldn't look away.

_ But then it was Dumbledore,"You have failed me, Harry."_

_ And then it was Hermione, "You killed him, Harry... You didn't need to kill him..."_

"HARRY, NO!"

_ And Dumbledore turned to Hermione, and he urged her on with what she was to do. "He deserves as good as he's given, Ms. Granger."_

_ "I loved you, Harry," she said as tears streaked down her face. "But you've left me with no other choice – you've made me do this. I __**loved **__you! But you've lost yourself, and you've left me with no choice but this!"_

"HARRY! HARRY IT'S NOT REAL! IT'S NOT – KILL IT!"

_ Dumbledore turned to the ghostly Hermione beside him, and he nodded his encouragement._

_ And she raised her wand, and it was pointed right in his eyes, and he couldn't shut his eyes or blink or turn away from those terrible words he knew he deserved. Anguish on her face, but nothing to the anguish in his heart: A green jet and the sound of rushing death would end his fate:_

"_AVADA KEDAVRA_!" Harry roared instead before the specter could, and a jet of green light rushed at the epicenter of the cyclone, and the moment the killing curse hit, the cyclone shrieked a horrible sound but dissolved in a puff of smoke as the Horcrux exploded.

The force of the explosion knocked Harry back, and he let himself fall. Hermione was at his side in an instant. "It's okay, Harry, it's all right – none of it was real."

"I'm – I'm okay," he said, but he didn't sound it. "I'm alright. I've already... I've seen that dream. I know it isn't real. I'm okay. I'm okay."

Hermione stood, and offered him her hand. He took it, and he clutched it tight as he shakily rose to his feet. She kissed his lips softly. "You did it, Harry," she said just as softly. "You destroyed a Horcrux." She smiled at him. "Now we just have to find the other four!"

He gave a quiet laugh. "Yeah, well, let's find ourselves a nice flat in London first. I want a bath, and a proper toilet, and maybe a refrigerator – and ooh, telly..."

Hermione kissed him again. "And a bed?"

"A nice big one."

The smile he wore as he spoke then might have been his last:

There, ten feet from them, stood a dozen or more wizards with wands raised.

_**A/N: This chapter was written a month ago. I haven't gotten around to posting lately, and I apologize for that. Three months ago I lost my job, a job I've had since a week after my sixteenth birthday. The last month has been hard. You've heard of Christmas blues? It's been hard. I've had a distinct lack of purpose in my life since I lost my job, and it's all been exacerbated since Christmas. It might sound like an excuse. I don't know. Maybe it is. But it's to account for my delay. If I'm not writing, I'm not posting, and that's why this has taken as long as it has. I guess I'm sorry to all of you. I would like to announce that I am writing a one-shot story about Harry's experience post-war, a story, fittingly enough, about losing your sense of purpose in the wake of something enormous in your life ending. Should be up soon, as shall the next chapter of this story, which marches ever on.**_

_** PhoenixAeternum**_

_** January 15, 2011**_


	12. The Army Assembled

_An __Author's __Note:_

_ Welcome to chapter twelve._

_ PhoenixAeternum_

_ December 13, 2010_

**Rebellion**

**The Army Assembled**

Before any of the dozen-plus people could blink, Harry had swept his wand before himself and Hermione and muttered an incantation that erected an eight foot wide magical shield. The people before them wore heavily black traveling cloaks, and Harry guessed they were snatchers – but if they were, they were damned clever ones; the wards he and Hermione had erected were not inconsiderable, and it seemed to Harry that anyone clever enough to get past them wouldn't be left a snatcher – Voldemort would want their explicit loyalty. Anyone who could get past the wards would have to be a Death Eater.

He held the shield steady. "Who are you?"

There was no response, the group of witches and wizards – or at least Harry assumed them to be both wizards and witches; but frankly it was impossible to tell gender with their cloaks on and hoods raised. All that mattered was that they were quite evidently armed.

He saw Hermione, out of the corner of his eye, raise her own wand.

"Who are you or I attack!" Harry shouted at them, and then, with a growl to remind them, added: "If you're Death Eaters, remember Severus Snape, remember the Carrows."

"We're not Death Eaters," a commanding voice said from the rear. Harry knew that voice...

Neville Longbottom lowered his hood, and he made his way to the front of the crowd. "Hiya Harry, Hermione." He smiled, but sometime in the last six months the light had gone out of his eyes, and he'd grown years older, decades maybe. He didn't look like the Neville Longbottom he and Hermione had known from school. He looked old.

"Neville!" Harry shouted. "What on _earth_ are you doing out here? And who's everyone else?"

"Harry!" Hermione said sharply, her eyes wide and stern. Harry got the message.

"Right," he raised his wand again. "Neville Longbottom, where were you the day Hermione, Ron, Ginny, and I visited Mr. Weasley at St. Mungo's?"

Neville gave a bark of a laugh, and Harry was at once reminded of Sirius. Is that what Neville, under the influence of war, was becoming? "The Permanent Spell Damage Ward, St. Mungo's, with my parents and gran."

Harry nodded, and he lowered his wand and dropped his shield. "Okay. Now answer – why are you here?" He realized, without caring, how harsh he sounded.

"We've come to find you, of course!"

Harry was unnerved. They'd come to find them? Why? How? It was the latter he asked. "How did you know where to find us?"

Neville pulled something small and metal out from a pocket of his robes. It was Dumbledore's deluminator. The one he'd given to Ron. "This. It led us to –"

"Where did you get that?" Hermione asked sharply.

"Well... I thought..." Neville seemed to be having difficulty with his words. "I thought you guys sent it to me. I mean, the note, it was from Ron."

"When did you get that, Neville?" Harry demanded, and he could see in Neville's eyes that his conversation was not going in the direction he had anticipated.

"I – well, six weeks ago? Seven? I don't know – it wasn't very long ago. But Ron – he can tell you." Neville seemed to notice something was wrong. "Where... Guys, where is Ron?"

Harry closed his eyes, and his lips tightened. He cast a slow glance at Hermione, but then faced Neville again to speak. "He left."

"What – what do you mean 'he left?'"

"He left," Harry repeated. "A while back. I don't know how long ago. We have trouble keeping track of time out here. He left us."

"But – but why?"

Harry shrugged, and he shook his head. "Doesn't matter, really. I don't even really know why, I guess. He just did. He left awhile ago. I guess about six or seven weeks, if that's when he sent you that. He never came back."

"I..." Neville seemed at a loss. Ron had left? _Ron_? He and Harry and Hermione had been the closest friends at Hogwarts, and he'd left them alone out here, in this wilderness? Where was he now, if not with Harry and Hermione? They had all assumed, all the Gryffindors, that the trio was together like they'd always been.

"You haven't heard from him otherwise?" Hermione asked. "He left a long time ago. I thought he'd have gone back to Hogwarts. Could he be at home? At the Burrow?"

Neville looked bewildered. "This is the only message I got from him – this thing, this deluminator, he called it, with a note that said I should use it if I needed to." Neville was quiet for a moment. "If Ron went back to the Burrow, Ginny doesn't know about it. I saw her three days ago, when term ended."

_Ginny..._ The name cut into Harry like a knife. She wasn't with them, then.

"Who are the rest, Neville?"

"What?" he looked surprised. "Oh – the others. Right. Hoods, everyone," he said to them, and they all, almost in unison, lowered their hoods.

Half a dozen Gryffindors, a few Hufflepuffs, and a couple Ravenclaws stood before them. All students, former classmates. Lavender Brown was there, and the Patil twins, Collin Creevey and his brother Dennis, Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan, Ernie Macmillan and Justin Finch-Fletchley and Hannah Abbott, Susan Bones and Terry Boot stood there before them. Notably absent was Harry's favorite Ravenclaw.

"Where is Luna?"

Neville looked pale. "We tried to... to stop..." Neville looked incredibly grave. "They took her, Harry, from the Express at the beginning of the year. No one knows where she is."

Harry's heart stopped. '_They __took __her... __no __one __knows __where __she __is.'_

"Oh god..." Hermione said beside him.

Harry swallowed. Hard. Luna was dead. He was sure of it. If she couldn't provide information to Voldemort and the Death Eaters – and Harry knew she couldn't, and if she could, she wouldn't – then they would have killed her within hours. Voldemort didn't take prisoners unless he could use them.

Harry nodded, and he swallowed again, trying to release the tension in his throat. "What do you all want? Why are you all here?"

"We've come... to fight, Harry. We want revenge – all of us. Most of us've lost family to this thing, and we've all lost friends. We want revenge, Harry. We want to join you – whatever it is Dumbledore's got you doing, we want in. We want to fight back – we want revenge."

"There's no way," Harry said. "There's no way. Look, everyone, I'm really sorry you've come all the way out here, but there's just no way."

"And why not?" Harry was surprised that it was Lavender Brown who shouted. "We were Dumbledore's Army!"

"This isn't a DA operation. This is me and Hermione, and, well, it was Ron too, but now it's just us. And it has to be that way."

"It _doesn't_ have to be that way – you've just decided. It's arbitrary," Lavender shot back. Harry was surprised at her vocabulary – he'd thought 'arbitrary' a bit beyond her reach.

"What we're doing is incredibly dangerous – more than anything we ever did at Hogwarts, or when some of us went to the Department of Mysteries in fifth year. It's the most dangerous thing anyone could possibly be doing right now, and there's no way I'm letting you all come with me."

"We can fight, Harry," Neville insisted. "We've had a lot of practice, since the Death Eaters took over everything. DA sessions are nightly. All of us – we can fight as good as anyone. We can fight."

Harry then did something impulsive. He cast his wand at the ground they stood on, and they went flying into the air like a bomb had gone off at their feet – and as they fell, shouting, Harry managed to disarm half of them.

"No you can't."

Neville rose to his feet angrily. "We can!"

"I knocked you all to the ground with _one_spell before _any_ of you had raised a wand!" Harry was fuming now. "You think any of you – or all of you together – you think you could take down Snape, or either Carrow? You think you can duel Bellatrix, Neville, and walk away from it?" He was growing angrier. "You think you can fight _him_?"

Lavender Brown had straightened herself up and was looking angrier than Neville had. "We weren't ready!"

Harry launched at her. "You think the Dark Lord will wait til you're _ready_? He'd kill any of you before you could _blink_! No – none of you stays. Having Hermione here is already too many people who might die – I won't add twelve more."

"We won't go," Neville insisted. "We're fighting – and we can either fight with you... We can either fight _for_ you, or we can fight alone, and they'll pick us all off, one by one. Is that any better? We are Dumbledore's Army! And we have trained for this, Harry! We aren't leaving – we will follow you to the ends of the earth – what about that don't you understand?"

"You _won't_!" Harry roared. "Did _any_ of you see what happened at Hogwarts, with Snape and the Carrows and me? Did _any_ of you!"

"We all did, Harry, except a couple. Dean and the Creevey boys, and Justin – they were all in hiding, but we reached out to them and that's why they're here with us. But everyone else – Harry, we were all there. We all saw."

"Then you saw what this _war_, this _thing_ has made me!" Harry was beginning to lose himself again. "You think I'll let that happen to any of you? Have any of you ever killed a man?"

Hermione placed her hand on his arm. "It's okay," she whispered, so quiet only he could hear. "Everything's all right."

He took a breath. They all looked at him like he'd gone mad. And maybe he had – maybe that's what this journey had made of him. Madness. But he calmed himself enough to make his case. "Does anyone know what's become of Draco Malfoy?"

Neville nodded. "We know he's a Death Eater. He never came back to school – I hear he's been on a few of the attacks at Diagon Alley in the last couple weeks."

"He hasn't," Harry said roughly. "I killed him. A month ago, at Godric's Hollow. I blasted off half his arm, and then I _killed_ him." The army assembled before him looked shocked – he'd killed a Hogwarts student? "I won't let any of you become what I've become. I won't let you all become murderers and killers – I won't let you find out for yourselves how much easier the second time is than the first, and how much easier the third is than the second.

"There are things in this war I must do alone. You want to do your part? Go back to Hogwarts. Keep up the DA meetings. Get stronger, get faster – get better at this. And when the time comes, when it's an all-out assault, you can fight with me. But until then – until _that __black __day_, Hermione and I are in this alone."

"We can't go back," Neville said loudly, angrily. "None of us can." He got very quiet then. "They got my gran, Harry. They killed her."

The blood receded from Harry's face, and Hermione gave a small gasp.

"We'd been causing a lot of trouble at school," Neville continued, "and they knew I was in charge of it, mostly, and a few weeks ago they came after me. But I hid in the Room of Requirement, and they couldn't get in. And so they killed my gran instead, Harry.

"I don't have anywhere to go. None of us does. Snape and Carrow – they're still in charge there, and they both know who we are. All of us." Neville paused. "Do you know how they administer detention now? It's not lines anymore, it's not Filch in the dungeons. They use us in Dark Arts class so the others can practice the Cruciatus curse. Every one of us's been tortured by them – by our own classmates, even.

"I had to do Ginny once. It was the most awful thing I've ever done." Neville looked like he himself was beginning to lose control. "I won't go back, Harry – none of us will. We've all lived with it long enough. We've _sat_ in school long enough, we've _waited_ long enough – it is time for _blood_, Harry!"

Harry was quiet for a long moment. "What I'm doing isn't exactly... Hermione, what's that word?"

"Conducive."

"Thank you. What I'm doing isn't exactly conducive to a group atmosphere. And even if you were to join us, I would never be able to tell you – ever – what Hermione and I are doing out here. This isn't about killing Death Eaters, or attacking Voldemort. This is the long game, Neville, Parvati – everyone. We won't be out staging counteroffensives in Diagon Alley or assassinating the Minister of Magic."

"And why not?" Neville asked. Harry gave a short laugh, but Neville was serious. "I mean it – why not counterattack at Diagon Alley? Why not assassinate the Minister?"

"Because this isn't about killing people, Neville," Harry said shortly. "Draco Malfoy died because he and some other Death Eaters attacked us in Godric's Hollow when we were there for another purpose. Gellert Grindelwald died because... it doesn't matter. We aren't going on killing missions, we're –"

"What do you mean about Grindelwald?"

Harry stopped. He shouldn't have mentioned... "Hermione and I – we went to Nurmengard, and I... I killed him."

Suddenly everyone was staring – staring like they hadn't before. Staring like they hadn't since sixth year when everyone called him the chosen one and no one had seen him lose himself against Snape and the Carrows.

"You – you killed Grindelwald?" asked Neville incredulously.

Harry nodded solemnly, but solemnity did not rule the moment. Suddenly the crowd Harry had knocked into the sky and onto the ground was cheering, and Harry felt sick.

"Stop it. Stop it, all of you." They did not. "_Stop __it!_" He brandished his wand, and he was pointing it at Neville, who seemed most jubilant of all of them.

"_STOP!_" Hermione screamed, and everyone went quiet.

"It wasn't like that," Harry said angrily, lowering his wand. "It wasn't anything to cheer. He was an old man, and he helped us. But he said the Dark Lord's name, and he invoked the Taboo, and _he_ came for us himself. And Grindelwald had helped us, but he didn't want _him_ to know what he'd told us, and he knew that he wouldn't be able to withstand torture, he knew he'd tell. And he begged me to kill him. He _begged_ me." Harry was teetering on the edge again. "Has any of you been begged to kill someone? Someone who'd just helped you? Someone who, it turns out, might be the reason any of us ever survives this war? I killed him, and he _begged_ me to! It wasn't noble, or glorious or triumphant or any of that – it was murder, it was killing an old man who was afraid of torture and the secrets he would tell. He was a defeated old man who saved us all, and I killed him. I killed him - and you _cheer!_ You cheer murder."

Neville looked thoroughly put in his place. He looked like a puppy that had been berated and reprimanded and told it was _very, __very __bad_. "I – Harry, I'm sorry. We all are."

He nodded, his teeth clenched. It would be dark soon. "You all need to be leaving. You'll want to disapparate before –"

"We aren't _going_, Harry," Neville said resolutely. "Look – you left, and I understand you probably had to, and you didn't have any choice, but you left, and Hermione left, and Ron did too – and do you know who that left in charge? Me. Me and Ginny – we're in charge of the DA.

"But Ginny's got a family she has to go home to, she's got a family she has to be there for, she's got a family she can't desert to come fight the war. And do you know who that leaves? Me. I'm in charge of the DA now, Harry – and these people, all of us, we are Dumbledore's Army. But Dumbledore's dead. We all saw him. And that means we're yours now.

"We are Potter's Army, and we won't leave. We've come to join you, we've come to fight – because we can't sit in school and watch our friends die or be tortured, we can't sit in school and wait for news that our families have been killed. We've come to go to war, Harry, and we're coming with you, and we're going where you lead, whether you like it or not!"

Harry looked very serious for a moment, but Neville thought perhaps he had gotten through. "I... I need a moment," Harry said. "Hermione?" He motioned toward the tent. "A word?"

At her nod, he reached a hand around her back and directed her toward the tent. But he had only gotten a few steps along before he was stopped.

"Harry..." Neville whispered.

"I just need a _moment_, Neville, and then –"

"No, Harry – look."

He turned, and beyond the crowd, a hundred feet or less away, stood a pack of half a dozen adult wizards in ragged robes, searching wildly for signs of activity.

Snatchers.

**X**

_**A/N: **__**This **__**has **__**been **__**sitting**__** – **__**in **__**a **__**drawer, **__**so **__**to **__**speak**__** – **__**for **__**ten **__**months. **__**I'm **__**in **__**limbo **__**with **__**this **__**story; **__**I **__**don't **__**know **__**whether **__**I'll **__**continue **__**it, **__**or **__**start **__**anew, **__**or **__**give **__**it **__**up **__**entirely. **__**But **__**I **__**figure **__**I've **__**kept **__**this **__**to **__**myself **__**long **__**enough. **__**I **__**have **__**another **__**couple **__**of **__**chapters **__**written, **__**after **__**this **__**one, **__**and **__**those **__**will **__**be **__**posted **__**in **__**time.**_

_** Best,**_

_** PhoenixAeternum **_


End file.
